Jigsaw Pieces
by Jess.91
Summary: Short one shots, not drabbles, of various eras, character and genres. - Because life's all jigsaw pieces, they just don't always fit -
1. Home

Jigsaw Pieces

1. Home

Teddy Lupin x Victoire Weasley.

Teddy Lupin was an orphan. He'd been an orphan for as long as he could remember, and before even that.

His parents had died together, on the same day as about fifty other people, and Voldemort himself. Just inside Hogwarts was a memorial with all their names inscribed.

To honour them, Harry always said.

Teddy was sat looking at that very castle at this very moment, his back against a thick tree, the sun setting and the grounds falling into shadows.

His godfather, Harry, had once told Teddy that Hogwarts was his very first home; the first place he could remember being happy, remember _belonging._ Harry, Teddy knew, had been brought up by his aunt and uncle who neither loved him nor wanted him.

It must, Teddy assumed, have been very lonely.

Teddy wasn't brought up unloved or unwanted. On the contrary, he lived with his grandmother - his mum's mother - who loved him a lot. He often stayed with his godfather, or friends of his godfather or parents.

He was, he knew, loved and wanted.

And yet, all the moving around, going from house to house and person to person, made him feel unsettled. Like he didn't really belong anywhere.

So he'd come to Hogwarts seven years ago, expecting to find a real home, expecting to feel that this is where he should be.

And he hadn't.

He loved the place, and he was happy here. But he was happy at his grandmother's, too, or Harry and Ginny's, or Ron and Hermione's or...well, anywhere, really.

It just wasn't home.

If he had parents - parents that were alive, that is - he'd have a home with them, wouldn't he? A real, permanent home, instead of being brought up playing pass-the-Teddy.

No. He had plenty or _places_ to live, eat, sleep, plenty of family would he loved and who loved him back. But he didn't have a home.

And then he saw her, walking across the grounds towards him, and felt himself smile.

"Hi." She said when she was just a few feet away. "Why are you out here all alone?"

"Thinking." He replied. "Just thinking."

"You should come inside. It's getting cold." She said, but sat down in front of him. He didn't speak, and for a little while, neither did she.

"Are you going to miss this place? When you leave?" She asked finally, glancing back at the huge castle.

"I guess. Maybe." He waited until she looked back at him, met his eyes. "I'll miss the people here more."

"You'll still see us." She shrugged, and then smiled, a little sadly. "But it's going to be weird next year, when you're not here anymore."

"I know, Victoire. It'll be weird for me, too." And instead of looking at the castle, he looked at her.

Home, he decided, wasn't a house, a place. Not really.

Home was a person, a person you belonged _with_, not a place you belonged in. It was a person that made you feel that you could be anywhere, feel at home anywhere, as long as you were with them.

Home for him, he decided, was her, Victoire.


	2. Stag and Doe

**2. Stag and Doe**

**Lily Evans x James Potter**

At the moment, Lily Evans' life didn't seem to be going all that well. Her sixth year was almost over, and what did she have to look forward to, over the holidays?

Her sister, her big sister, who hated her.

Her parents, who looked at her with awe and pride, not really understanding her, no matter how hard they tried.

And the war. The war that was happening in the wizarding world, and leaking over into the muggle world.

She had two months to worry that Death Eaters would come calling, kill her family, because _she_ was there.

She had two months to struggle through her homework, that was bound to pile up on her. She had two months to worry, because after the summer holidays, her final year at Hogwarts would begin.

And then, she'd have to worry about N.E.W.Ts, and what she'd do after Hogwarts.

She was sat on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, leaning against a tree. Some people were scared to get this close to the place. Lily wasn't. She could protect herself. She was a good witch.

A good witch who was struggling with her school work. A good witch who was determined to join the Order of the Phoenix, fight Voldemort, and was prepared to die doing so.

Lily Evans may only be seventeen, but she was ready.

And a little scared. But the fear of death, pain, wouldn't hold her back.

A twig cracked, and she stiffened, turned her head slowly, and relaxed as she saw the stag, stood a little way into the forest, looking at her uneasily. Without thinking, she held out her hand, hoping it would come closer. And, tentatively, it did.

She stood slowly as it neared, and when it reached her and bent his head, she stroked it gently.

"Hi there." She murmured. The stag looked at her with hazel eyes. "Bet you don't come here to be alone, and sit and worry, do you?" Her voice was quiet, but in his animagus form, James could hear her perfectly. "And I shouldn't be, either. You're not supposed to worry about the holidays, are you? Well, my sister hates me and I don't fit in with my parents anymore. I don't belong in their world. And it's too early to be worrying about seventh year, isn't it? But that's what I do. I'm worrying about exams that are a year away...I'm worrying about this war that I'm going to fight in one day...I'm so scared..."

He expected her to start crying there. Her voice was a little weird, but her eyes stayed dry. Still, he wished he was in his normal form. He could comfort her then, hug her.

Of course, she wouldn't have said any of this if she'd known it was him inside the stag, would she?

Lily shook her head a little. "And now I'm talking to an animal. An animal that can't even talk back." She sighed a little, looked at the stag's eyes again. "I swear...there's something so familiar about you..." She moved her hand, stepped back, and studied the stag. And, knowing she wouldn't be all that happy if she realised just who the stag reminded her of, James turned, and strode back into the forest.

And somehow, Lily felt so much better.


	3. Danger

**Thanks for all the feedback on this so far. I mean to say that on the last update, too, but I forgot to put it on. Oh, and as for this chapter, I know it's almost overdone, but I had to do my version, didn't I?**

**3. Danger**

Ron Weasley tumbled out of the fireplace, bringing ash onto the carpet. Harry and Ginny looked up in surprise, as Ron struggled to his feet and brushed himself down. His eyes were wide and fearful as he looked behind him, as though expecting someone to follow him. The top of his hair was singed, and his robes were ruffled. His breathing was shallow and uneven.

Someone who hadn't seen this before might assume Ron was being chased by dark wizards.

Harry and Ginny had seen this before.

"What did you do this time?" Ginny asked, as Ron, satisfied he wasn't being followed, wondered over to a chair and collasped into it.

"All I said was that you could tell she was pregnant." Ron told them wearily. "She asked if I thought she was fat, and I said you could tell she was pregnant. I just meant people wouldn't think she was fat..."

Ginny sighed and rolled her eyes.

"What did she try to hit you with?" Harry asked. Ron reached up to touch his burned hair carefully.

"I don't know, but I think it's a good thing I ducked. She's mad, completly mad."

"She's not mad, Ron." Ginny said, frowning slightly. "You should try not to upset her so much."

"Upset her?" Ron cried indignantly. "How did I -?"

"I better go make sure she's OK." Ginny interrupted, standing up and passing James to Harry. "Really, Ron, be more considererate. See you later." She added, then threw a handful of glintering power into the fire, and stepped in after it.

"More considerate?" Ron repeated. "But...what did I _do_?"

"I don't know." Harry said truthfully. "Maybe you just shouldn't talk. At all."

"Tried that. She thinks I'm sulking with her, and gets all upset, and tells me I'm impossible. And cries, sometimes."

"Oh. Well, think of it this way. Only a few more months left, right?"

"A few more months." Ron repeated, then turned to Harry. "If I don't live through this, promise me you'll make sure the baby knows I was a good person and didn't deserve Hermione brutally murdering me."

"OK." Harry promised. "When are you going back?"

Ron swallowed, and looked at the fireplace uneasily, as if it might suddenly pull him inside.


	4. Hope

4. Hope

Lily Evans x James Potter

Gryffindor, James Potter decided, always threw great parties.

It was nearly the end of his sixth year, and they'd just won the Inter-House Quidditch Cup again. So, naturally, the common room was crowded, loud, and happy.

He was, if he did say so himself, an excellent captain, and an excellent player. Not that he said so aloud, of course. That was the kind of thing that wound Evans up, and if he wanted to keep his tiny little ray of hope, he wouldn't wind her up anymore.

He moved threw the crowd, searching out a drink - there must be one somewhere - getting stopped and congratulated, and hugged. When he finally reached the table where the butterbeers were stood on, he reached out, was a inch away from one -

"Hi." At the sound of the voice, he spun around so fast he went dizzy. It wasn't like her to voluntarily speak to him, but he wasn't going to point that out to her.

"Evans. Hey." He said brightly. "Did you see the match?" She had, and he knew, as he'd searched her out in the crowd more than once.

"Yeah. Well done, you played good." He blinked at her. Had she complimented him? Really?

"Well, you know...team effort." He shrugged. She smiled a little, as if she didn't believe he meant what he was saying. He did. Sort of. And if he was bursting to ask if she seen how well he'd flown, or to remind her he was the captain, it didn't matter. He was determined to show her he wasn't that arrogant show-off he'd been in their fifth year, even if it killed him.

"Anyway." She said, and picked up a bottle of butterbeer. "Have a good summer."

"Yeah. You too." James said. She started to turn away, and, wanting to keep her talking to him for a little while longer, he grabbed her arm and said the first thing that came to him. "Hey...did I do something to make you stop hating me?" He regretted it instantly, sure it was practically asking for trouble.

"No." She said, and shook her head, looking a little embarrassed. "It's just...life's too short, isn't it? All those people out there, getting killed..."

He understood, and nodded. "Lily?" He waited until she'd met his eyes, only realising when he saw her surprise that he'd said her first name. "Stay safe, this summer, OK?" He said softly.

"Sure." She nodded, and smiled. "You too. Hogwarts wouldn't be the same without you."

He released her arm in shock, watched her walk away, and decided there was plenty of hope yet.


	5. The Middle Name

**5. The Middle Name**

"I don't know." Harry said, again, and handed his newborn son back to his wife. "I just don't know."

"Hmm." Ginny replied. There wasn't much point in saying more. She doubted he was even listening to her.

"Maybe you should just pick his middle name."

"No." Ginny replied. "We agreed. You picked James' first name; I picked his middle name. I've picked Al's nane; now you pick the middle name."

"But if I choose that...I mean, we know he was on our side, and we know what he did, but mostly, people still hate him. Including you."

"With good reason." Ginny replied. "But if you think it's the right thing to do -"

"I don't know." Harry repeated. "I mean, he saved my life, and he risked everything to try and save my mum, and then risked it all again in her memory. But he hated me, and my dad, and the way he treated us all...We should give him a different middle name. Arthur?"

"Bill and George have both used it as a middle name." Ginny replied.

"Remus?"

"Teddy's middle name. But if you want it -"

"People wouldn't really make the connection, would they? I mean, how many people knew Snape's first name?"

Plenty, actually, but she just shrugged.

"And you probably have a cousin or something somewhere called Severus, don't you?" He continued. "So really, it's not like we're naming him after Snape. And no one even called him by his first name, did they? I mean, none of us?"

"Mmmm." She said again, knowing he had to make the decision on his own. Knowing that, really, he'd already made the decison, because it was something he had to do.

He reached over, took Albus from her again. "I owe him my life." Harry said softly. "Not as much as Dumbledore, or my parents, but I owe him it. Without him, I might have died a long time ago. I might not have, but...He was one of the bravest people I'll ever meet. As much as I hate him, I understand him. I...I forgave him, but this might be taking it a bit too far."

"Harry." Ginny sighed, and he looked at her. "What do your instincts tell you?"

He hesitated, thought about it. "My insticts tell me his middle name should be Severus." He replied quietly.

"And how much do you trust your instincts?"

"A lot." He admitted.

"So you know what you need to do."

He nodded, looked back down at Al. "Albus Severus." He murmured, then looked back up at her. "Snape would hate it, you know."

"Which is definetly a plus." Ginny replied, smirking.

"Yeah." Harry nodded. "Tribute, revenge, what's the difference?"


	6. Stealing

6. Stealing

Next Generation.

"Shh." James Potter whispered, and, obeying for once, his brother, sister, and cousins silenced. "OK, here's the plan." He glanced behind him, just to make sure his mum or dad weren't close. "Lily, Rose, you two stand guard here -"

"Why do we have to guard? That's not fair -" Rose hissed instantly.

"If this is because we're girls -" Lily added.

"It's not, OK? Shh." James said quickly. "It's because you two are the most innocent looking. If mum or dad sees you two hanging out here, they're not going to think anything of it, are they?"

Both girls considered for a moment, before reluctantly agreeing.

"OK. If someone comes, start...singing, or something. Al, Hugo, we're going in." James was, of course, the leader. He was the oldest, after all. So he stepped through the door into their parents' room first, with his brother and cousin moving quickly behind him.

Hugo was the last to enter, and closed the door behind him.

"You wait there, listen out for the girls, OK?" James muttered, and Hugo obediently stood still. He was the youngest boy, and was used to James and Al ordering him around.

James and Al surveyed the room, the younger waiting for his brother's instructions. James was always in charge, but Al didn't mind. It had always been that way, and they didn't usually get caught at stuff, so he was obviously doing something right.

"You search the top of the wardrobe." James said finally. "And the drawer on the bedside table. I'll take the desk."

They moved silently forward, Al clambering onto his parents' bed to look on top of their wardrobe, James shifting through newspapers and letters and books on his dad's desk. They worked well for a fourteen year old and a thirteen year old.

Lily and Hugo may not have agreed to help if they hadn't been starting Hogwarts in just a few weeks. James wouldn't have attempted this without them - he may like to cross a line every once in a while, but he was careful to keep the line in sight, always. He wasn't stupid. He was careful.

He opened a drawer on the desk, lifted the stack of his dad's old school books, and there, right at the bottom, he saw it. He recognised it instantly, even though he hadn't seen it in years.

When Teddy Lupin had started Hogwarts, Harry had given the Marauder's map to him, saying it was only fair as Remus had helped make it. When Teddy had left Hogwarts, he'd given it back to Harry, and James had expected to get it.

He hadn't. And that wasn't right. So if Harry wasn't going to give him it...

"This is it!" James hissed. "This has to be it." He waved the ancient bit of parchment in the air, and grinned at his brother. "Here - hold it a sec -" He pushed it into Albus's hands, and quickly replaced his dad's old school books in the bottom drawer. "If it was under all them, he can't look at it or anything. He'll never notice it's missing." He took the paper back, then waved his brother forward. "Go on - out -"

Barely a minute later, the five of them were sat on James's bed, watching with baited breath as he unfolded the parchment.

"Do you remember how to work it?" Hugo asked.

"Of course I do." James muttered. He withdrew his wand, flicked a glance at the door, just to be sure, then touched the tip of his wand to the map. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good." He whispered.

All at once, thin black lines spread across the map, detailing Hogwarts, while the five kids around it watched with awe.

"We've done it, we've found it." Al said, just a little too loudly. "The Marauder's Map -"

"Al!" James cried, but it was too late. It had been Al's bad luck that Harry was half-way up the stairs to check on them - when the five of them were that quiet, nothing good ever happened - and had heard Al's voice. The door burst open, and the less-than-happy Harry Potter looked over them, then at the map in James's hands.

"How many times," he said, fighting to keep his voice calm, "do you lot have to be told not to go through my things?"

Lily grabbed a lock of her hair, began twisting it around her finger, as she always did when she was nervous. Rose looked guiltily at the floor. Al looked at James, silently apologising for giving them away, while Hugo's eyes darted around the room.

James met his father's gaze fearlessly.

Harry stepped forward slowly, and took the map out of his son's hand. "How did you find it? Why did you even look for it?"

"It was me. The others had nothing to do with it." James said quickly. There was no point them all getting into trouble. And as the oldest, the leader, it should be him protecting the rest. "They didn't even know I was going to -"

"No." Rose interjected. "It was all of us. We all helped."

Even mad at them, Harry had to admire their loyalty, as they all nodded. Undoubtedly, it had been James' idea, but Harry didn't think for a minute he'd done it alone.

"I told you, you weren't allowed to have this. I gave you the invisibility cloak, didn't I?"

"Why shouldn't we have this, too?" James replied, still meeting his father's eyes. Well, he was already in trouble. "We have a right to it, just like Teddy did."

Harry sighed, because he knew his son had a point. He couldn't completely explain why he didn't want them to have it. Maybe because James got in enough trouble without it. Maybe because - even after all these years with the wizarding world safe - he didn't like the thought of his kids wondering around alone at night.

The kids watched him, well aware he was fighting a personal little war. Finally, Harry looked carefully at them all.

"If I let you take it...no sneaking out of the castle grounds. Not going to Hogsmeade."

It wasn't exactly fair - he had, after all, used the map to illegally sneak out of the castle in his third year. But he was a parent, he didn't have to be fair.

"OK. Promise." James said excitedly, and Harry knew he'd keep his words. They didn't break promises in this family.

"And you don't go telling people you have it. It's a secret." Harry continued.

"Sure." Al nodded.

"And no arguing over it."

"We won't." Rose said quickly.

Harry sighed, and let the map go. It fluttered back onto James's bed. "Don't cause too much trouble." he sighed, as he turned to leave.

He noticed that no one said anything to that. Maybe he should just be happy that they didn't lie to him.

James waited until they heard Harry reach the bottom of the stairs before leaning close.

"OK...I have a few ideas..."


	7. His Father

I actually really like this one, I think it'll be one of my favourite Jigsaw Pieces, even though I may not have been all that fair to Neville.

7. His Father

Scorpius Malfoy had the same white blonde hair and pale, pointed face as his father. He had the same lack of Quidditch talent, the same slightly higher than average potion making ablilities.

But he wasn't his father.

Draco Malfoy wasn't as bad as he had been during his school days, but some habits - values - die hard, and while he was no longer as abusive to muggleborns, he still believed what his own father had always taught him - the pure-blood was the best blood.

Scopius didn't. Blood was blood, it was all the same colour. He didn't see why a wizard needed to be inbred to be the best. He saw no connection with old wizarding blood and good abilities.

He wasn't his father.

He didn't deserve the looks Albus Potter or Rose Weasley gave him. He didn't deserve the mistrust those who knew his father held for him. He didn't deserve their prejudice. He kept his head down, kept most of his opinions to himself, avioded answering questions in class. He didn't want their judgment, their snide comments.

The Gyffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs all hated him because of his surname.

Most of the Slytherins admired him because of it.

He didn't want their admiration, either. He refused the offers of friendship from the Slytherins who held the old values.

He wasn't his father.

When the Sorting Hat had been placed on his head a few months ago, he'd been unsurpirsed at the murmur that he would do well in Slytherin. He'd been surprised to be told he could fit into Gryffindor, though.

But it would probably have killed his grandfather. His father wouldn't be very happy either.

And so he'd begged to be in Slytherin, so that his family could keep the little honor they had left.

The hat had oblidged. Sorpius wished it hadn't.

Because he didn't belong in that house.

He wasn't his father.

"Malfoy? Do you know the answer?" Scorpius jumped at the sound of his Herbology teacher's voice, and wished he could close his eyes and disappear. Neville hated him. Scorpius knew how his father had treated Professor Longbottom in their school days, and didn't blame him, however unfair it was.

"No, sir." He murmured, looking down at the table. Across the room, Rose Weasley stuck her hand in their air, and gave a perfect answer when Neville called on her. Then she threw Scorpius a look of contemp, before turning back and whispering something to Albus Potter. She hated him, for no other reason than the things his father had done.

Neville glanced at his watch, and announced that he'd hand back the homework and go through any bits people didn't understand in the last few minutes.

He reached Scorpius last, watched the boy's face as his dropped the piece of paper onto the desk. The numbers in the corner read "9/10". While he felt a burst of pride at the high mark, Scorpius kept looking at the table, showing no reaction.

"Well done." Neville said quietly, as he did to all the students after handing back work, regardless of their mark, then, leaning forward, asked quietly: "Did you copy this from someone?"

"No, sir." Scorpius replied, still looking at the table. In his short time here, he'd proved, time and time again, that he was good at Herbology.

And, time and time again, Neville Longbottom had asked him if he'd cheated.

"Did someone do this for you?" Neville continued.

"No, sir."

"Well." Neville murmured. While his instincts told him the boy wasn't lying, that he was being unfair, he couldn't let go of the memories he held. _The sins of the father..._ "Your father never had much time or talent for this subject -"

"I'm not my father!" The words tore out of his throat before Scorpius could stop them. He was finally looking up, meeting the shocked gaze of his teacher. "I'm not him, OK?"

Everyone was looking at him. He _hated _the attention, the stares, the whispers. And so he jumped to his feet and, leaving behind his bag and the rest of his things, ran from the greenhouse.

He headed for the library, sat in a shadowed corner where he hoped no one would see him, and held a book up in front of his face, hiding from the world, the judgment. He hated being here. He hated being a Malfoy.

Twenty minutes later, he heard something drop onto his table. Looking up, he saw his bag. Looking up higher, he saw Albus Potter.

"Hi." The boy said quietly. Scorpius didn't speak, just waited for the insult that was bound to follow. After a long pause, Al spoke again. "I'm not my dad, either."

And he dropped into the seat opposite Scorpius.

Draco Malfoy wasn't happy that his son's first friend was Albus Potter. Scorpius didn't care.

He wasn't his father. And he didn't have to be.


	8. Expectations

8. Expectations

Draco Malfoy always did what was expected of him. He was in Slytherin, as expected. He was blond and pale and everything he'd been expected to be.

He became a death eater, because it was expected. Perhaps not as soon as it happened, but it had been expected all the same.

And after the war, he'd pleaded and lied and begged and bribed his way out of prison, because he was expected to. And he'd wanted to, but that was beside the point.

He'd married a pure-blooded witch, because he was expected to. He'd had one son, because he'd been expected to.

Now, however, he looked across the crowded station, and saw them. Hermione Granger - Weasley, now, wasn't she? - and her husband and kids. Grinning and hugging her kids, her face and eyes full of love for them.

Draco said goodbye to his own son, watched him on the train and waved, as expected. But he couldn't help stealing glances over at her.

During their school years, he'd done what was expected, especially where she was concerned. He'd called her a mudblood, because people had expected it. He'd been horrible to her, because people expected it. He'd shown every appearence of hating her, because it was expected of him.

He'd never, ever, ever, gave the slightest hint that he'd liked her, because it just wasn't expected. He'd never had an actual conversation with her, because it wasn't expected.

He'd never tried to change her opinion of him, because her opinion was what was expected of him.

He'd never reacted on what he'd felt for her, never taken that chance, never shown her his nicer side in the hope she'd like him back, because it wasn't expected of him.

As the train started to move, he saw Hermione link hands with Ron, lean into him. And burned with jealously.

Just once, he wished he'd done something that wasn't expected of him.


	9. The Waiting Game

9. The Waiting Game

Ginny Weasley x Harry Potter.

She didn't know if she loved him. She liked him a lot, cared for him deeply. But Ginny Weasley had liked Harry Potter a lot since she was eleven, and had cared for him deeply since she'd really gotten to know him.

She'd all but given up on him, resigned herself to be just his friend, told herself he'd never see her as more than Ron's little sister.

And then he had. And for just a few weeks, she actually had been his girlfriend. And then he'd had to go off, to start his fight, and she was back to waiting.

It seemed she was always waiting for Harry. Waiting to for him to like her, waiting for herself to get over him. And then, after Dumbledore's death, she'd been waiting for him to break up with her, because she knew him, and had known he would.

Once home, she'd waited for his arrival. And when he had, she'd waited for him to leave, dreading the day when he'd go, when he'd put himself in more risk than ever.

And when he'd gone - taking her brother and one of her closest friends - she'd waited for news. On her low days, she'd waited to hear of their deaths. On her high days, she'd waited for news of Voldemort's downfall.

Even knowing they were safe at Bill's hadn't helped, because she'd known they wouldn't stay. So she'd waited to hear of their departure. And then, on the short journey to Hogwarts on that fateful night, she'd waited to see him, and Ron and Hermione.

And then she was waiting for the battle to be over, dreading the deaths, hoping for Voldemort's defeat. She'd waited, while Harry faced up to Voldemort in the hall, for him to stop talking, and to kill or die.

She'd waited for the celebrations to be over, knowing he'd need time with Ron and Hermione, knowing he needed to sleep, knowing that they all needed to deal with what happened.

And then she'd waited for him to approach her, because she was scared he wouldn't.

And then, when he'd murmured that they needed to talk, when she'd let him into her room, she waited for him to speak, to tell her that he understood if she didn't, but that he wanted them to get back together.

"I want to." She'd said finally. "But not...not just yet. I need to get over everything." She could hardly believe she was actually saying this, but Ginny was no longer an eleven year old girl; Ginny had seen and done enough to know that there were more important things in the world than whether Harry Potter liked her or not.

"Can you give me that?" She asked him, meeting his eyes, the surprise and understanding in them.

"Of course." He said, and she heard in his voice that he'd rather not. For some reason, it made her smile slightly. "I can wait." He added, and her smile widened.

She wouldn't make him wait long; not years or months, probably not even too many weeks. It wasn't a revenge thing. But she knew, right then as he hugged her, that he was prepared to wait months, or years, for her if he had to.

And just knowing that he would wait, as she had, made her feel better, made her feel safer. She wasn't used to depending on people, hadn't for a long time. But knowing that he was there for her to lean on, knowing that he'd be waiting for her, gave her the certainty that she'd get through this, through everything that had happened.


	10. The Last Goodbye

10. The Last Goodbye

Nymphadora Tonks had never imagined herself as a mother. Sure, occasionally she'd thought that she'd probably have kids one day. When she was older. More mature. And didn't fall over so much.

But she'd never been one of those girls who picked out names, planned out how many kids she would have, how far apart, which ones would share bedrooms. The concept of a family was something that she thought was almost inevitable, something she'd like to do one day.

And then Voldemort had come back to power, and having babies was the furthest thing from her mind. After all, who would bring a baby into this world, knowing that they could die any time, leave the poor kid alone?

And then, the night in the ministry, when Voldemort was revealed and Sirius had died and she'd almost done the same, Remus had been there for her, and she'd been there for him - the poor guy had lost his last childhood friend - and somewhere along the line, she'd fallen in love with him.

Even then she hadn't thought about marriage and kids, because she was still too young, and she was too busy convincing Remus to give them a chance. And then when he'd finally given in, and they'd married - and she still wasn't entirely sure how they'd managed that - she still didn't think about kids. Because they were in the middle of a war. Because she still fell over all the time. Because she wasn't grown up enough for it.

And then she found out she was pregnant, and it was as though she'd found the one thing that had been missing. Because despite the timing, despite her clumsiness, she wanted this baby more than anything else in the world.

It wasn't easy. Remus left, then came back. She was doing less work for the order, as they seemed reluctant to send her on the more dangerous missions in her condition. As she got closer and closer to giving birth, she stopped actually working altogether, simply sitting in on the meetings so she was up to date, and spending half her time worrying. That Remus would die before their child was born. That something would happen to her, and her baby would never see the world.

And then she had Teddy. And the fear had increased. That he'd be left all alone. That she'd hurt him, drop him. That something would take her away from him.

She'd never imagined leaving him. And yet, she watched Remus tumble into the fireplace and leave, and she knew she couldn't stay behind.

She was torn. Desperate to go, fight. Desperate to stay, protect. But she knew what she had to do. It was the only thing she could really do.

"I don't want to leave you, Teddy." She whispered, and the infant in her arms met her gaze solemnly, as though he understood every word. "I want to stay here, and keep you safe. But I have to go. You understand that, don't you?" Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her face. "I have to. And I know I might not come back. But you'll be OK. You'll be OK, because I love you. And I know that doesn't even make sense..." She laughed shakily. "You'll know that, won't you Ted? You'll know that I love you. Don't ever forget that."

Tonks entered the kitchen, where her mother looked up at her bleakly.

"I have to go." Tonks whispered.

"Please. Don't." Andromeda murmured. "Please, Dora. Stay here."

"Mum, I have to. You know I do."

"I can't lose you too."

Tonks looked down at Teddy again. "You'll look after Teddy? If I don't make it? You'll look after Teddy?"

"Yes."

"Then you won't have lost me. I'm sorry, mum. I have to do this." She lifted Teddy, kissed his forehead. "Love you. Be good. Goodbye." And then she handed the boy to her mother. "Love you. Be good." She said, trying and failing to make her mum smile. "Bye." She said softly.

"Dora...Promise me you'll come home."

Tonks met her mother's eyes, then glanced down at her son. "I wish I could."

And then she left, to do what she had to do.

And Nymphadora Tonks never returned to the boy she would always love.


	11. Her Biggest Secret

This was actually really hard to right, I kept doubting it all the way through. Let me know if it made sense, OK?

11. Her Biggest Secret

Petunia Dursley felt as though she was doing something very bad. She was certain she should be at home, looking after her son. And her nephew.

Instead, she had left the two boys with a friend - she'd lied to the friend about where she was going, too - and she was getting out of a taxi, telling herself she'd just wasted time and money, because there was no point in her coming here.

She'd told Vernon she didn't want to. That it didn't matter. He'd believed her, which actually upset her a bit. After all, Lily was still her sister. Shouldn't he have known she wanted to go to the funeral, that she was lying?

Well, she had hidden it well. Harry was the only one who'd seen her cry over Lily, just for a minute that first night, when she'd set him up in Dudley's room. But it hadn't seem to have occurred to Vernon that it might be hard for her, to hear of her sister's death, to see Lily's eyes when she looked at the boy.

She'd hated Lily. Hated her. And yet...she still remembered the times before Lily had gone to the freak school, when they'd been close.

Godric's Hallow was a nice little village, she noticed. Not really her kind of thing, but she could see the attraction. When Petunia neared the cemetery, she stopped walking abruptly, surprised by the crowd. Was there another funeral? Had she mixed up the dates? Because surely, this many people couldn't be here for Lily and her husband, could they?

But they must be. They were all wearing the clothes Lily had, those dress things.

Petunia walked closer, fighting the urge to turn and run. Because she had to be here, had to make sure Lily was really dead.

Lily, the bright little girl, the confident teenager, the proud mother, wife, witch, dead? Her little sister?

"Petunia?" Petunia jumped at the voice, and even as she turned towards it she was certain the person hadn't meant her - who knew her name _here_? She turned to see a man with a beard that fell to his midriff. Looking right at her.

"Can - can I help you?" She asked uncertainly.

"My sincere condolences. We'll all miss Lily and James. They were -"

"Do I know you?" Petunia blurted. Dumbledore smiled.

"Not directly, I don't think. Albus Dumbledore..."

----

She shouldn't be here. She didn't fit in here with all the freaks, all the people who'd been a part of Lily's life, close to her. Because she hadn't been close to Lily for years, hadn't been a part of her life for a while.

But she couldn't go. Her biggest secret stopped her.

So she stayed until the very end, and cried in the taxi home. She fixed herself up, picked up the boys, and pretended to Vernon that her day had been normal.

That night was the first and last time she hugged her nephew, but she'd had to feel close to Lily.

But from then on, she refused to get close to Harry. She'd been close to Lily, hadn't she, and look how that had turned out. It was easier to keep a distance, to be cruel to the boy, and to pretend that he didn't exist whenever she could. It was easier to focus on her resentment towards Lily, and ignore her biggest secret.

When they had to go into hiding, and Harry was going off to risk his life, she remembered Lily, and that Lily had died. And it hurt to think that Lily's son would probably die too. There was so much she wished to say to him, but she hadn't told anyone her biggest secret, and she couldn't bring herself to do so now.

And then, months later, when those people Harry had gotten to protect them told her and Vernon and Dudley that Harry had done it, he'd won, he was alive and safe, she'd filled with the same relief that glowed on Dudley's face.

Because her biggest secret was that she'd loved Lily, and she loved Harry.

But no one would ever know her biggest secret.


	12. Circles

12. Circles

Minerva McGonagall had been teaching for a long time. She prefered not to tell her students just how long, but she had taught most of their parents and some of their grandparents.

She had seen students arrive, grow up, marry and have their own children.

She had seen students die.

The ultimate circle.

McGonagall rememebered James Potter. She remembered the bright eleven year old, the arrogant fifteen year old, and the considerate adult he'd become. She'd gotton to know James well during his many detentions. She'd never have told him, but he was one of her favourites.

She remembered Lily Evans. Another bright eleven year old, a slightly shy teenager, a confident adult who'd found happiness with the boy she'd never considered. She'd gotten to know Lily during her prefect, then head girl, days. She was also a favourite.

They were her friends, after she'd left Hogwarts. She'd loved them both as they were her own children. And she'd cried when they'd died.

And then Harry had arrived. She'd seen both of them in him. She'd looked out for him best she could, and although she was well practised at hiding it, he was one of her favourites.

Molly and Arther Weasley were also good friends. She'd seen all of their children through school, and was now seeing their grandchildren through as well. She'd watched little Ginny Weasley go from being a shy eleven year old with an obvious crush on Harry Potter, into a confident, capable young women who was better at hiding her feelings. Another of her secret favourites.

And then, just like she'd watched Lily and James grown closer, watched them get together, fall in love, she watched Harry and Ginny grow closer, and get together, and, despite all the things in between, despite them both nearly getting killed, they, too, fell in love. She watched them marry, and have three children whom she took great delight in. Another circle, but a much happier one.

Now, McGonagall was teaching another James Potter, Harry and Ginny's eldest son, a mixture of his parents, a confident, smart eleven year old who was already a favourite, who she was ready to watch grow up and marry.

And every time she looked at him, everytime she looked at a female student who James wasn't related to, she would wonder who he'd grow close to, get together with, fall in love with. Whether it would be another red-head, whether it would be someone in his year, or another, whether it would be one of her favourites.

She was prepared to see James Potter and all the others grow up, and find happiness. One day, she hoped she'd see James' own son through school.

Minerva McGonagall enjoyed the circle, and would gladly watch it over and over for as long as she could.


	13. Fallen

The dialogue is awkward, but you get the idea.

**13. Fallen**

His mother was a mess. Ron understood why, of course, but he didn't know what to do when he walked into the kitchen and found her sobbing quietly.

It was exactly three days since Fred had died, and so finding Molly crying was no surprise to Ron. But when she looked up, saw him, and threw herself at him, a surprised, an sligthly fearful, yelp escaped from his throat.

She was hugging him tightly, the kind of rib-cracking hug that he'd always pretended to hate but had secretly craved for at a younger age.

"I was so worried about you." She told him, in a muffled voice. "I thought...I thought I'd never see you again."

And she wept louder.

Ron had never liked emotional women. Or emotional boys, for that matter, but he had seen far less of them. But what were you supposed to do when someone was crying all over your shoulder?

"It's OK." He said uncertainly. "We'll be OK, mum."

"What if something had happened to you?" Molly demanded.

"You'd get over it pretty quickly." Ron replied. He hadn't meant for his resentment to escape him, but lately his own emotions had been close to the surface. He half expected his mother not to have heard, or recognised the tone, but she drew back and looked at him in confusion.

"What?"

"Nothing." He said quickly, his ears instantly flaming red.

"Why do you think I'd get over it quickly?" She asked him, her eyes staring straight into his as though she could read the answers there.

Apparently, she could, because she sighed. "Oh, Ronnie..."

"_Mum._" He hissed at the hated nickname.

"I know I haven't given you enough attention over the years." She sighed. "I never intended it...and I didn't realise you felt this way."

"I don't. It's fine." Ron said quickly, raising his hands as though to hold off her words.

"Bill was my oldest." She told him quietly. "And I didn't want to let him go. Maybe I gave him more attention because I hoped it would keep him home. And then he moved so far away, and I knew Charlie would do the same, and I was so worried about them...And Percy, he was always so _different_, and sometimes he seemed to exluded from the rest of you, I wanted to protect him. And Fred and George...well, I couldn't take my eye off of them for a second. And Ginny was my baby...so maybe I didn't show you how much I worried."

Ron didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.

"I did worry about you." She continued tearfully. "Every single day. And last year, I fought so hard to stop you from going...I don't know how I'd have managed losing you...my baby boy..."

Ron was extremly uncomfortable by now, and yet he could feel all the old resentment slipping out of them.

"You never remember I didn't like corned beef." He managed finally. "Or that I hate maroon. I thought you didn't care."

"I could never remember what any of you liked or didn't. And I know you don't like maroon, but it suits you, Ron..."

Ron smiled, and shook his head, and Molly hugged him again.

"You never gave me as much trouble as the rest of them. And then, off you go, risking your life to fight you-know-who. I'm so proud of you..."

Five minutes later, Ron walked back into the living room with a bemused smile on his face. He wondered over to Hermione, and took hold of her hand.

"What are you smiling about?" She asked him, hiding her relief. He hadn't smiled once since the day after Voldemort's downfall.

"Do you ever get the feeling that everything's fallen into place?" He asked her. Hermione looked at him, then around the room, and then her gaze settled on their joined hands.

"Yes. I do."


	14. Broken Emotion

I'm quite happy with how this turned out, what do you think?

14. Broken Emotion

Remus Lupin was an intelligent man. He was brave and loyal and kind. He had loved his family, his friends.

But Remus wasn't an emotional man. He laughed often, but love and laughter - and often worry - were the only emotions Remus felt.

He hadn't cried since he was a small boy. Maybe because, in the early years of his affliction, Remus had cried often. He had learned, long before most people realised it, that crying solved nothing. And so he stored the tears when they wished to form, and swallowed the sobs when they tried to rise, and after a while Remus' emotions gave in and never tried to break the surface.

At this moment, Remus had a pressure in his chest, his body was shaking, but no tears gathered in his eyes, or spilled over and tracked down his face.

Because tears and sobs wouldn't fix this, wouldn't put everything back to how it should be.

How could it have been Sirius? Sirius, who had doted on Lily and James and little Harry, Sirius, who had hated everything connected to the dark arts, and had even severed ties with his family because of it, Sirius, who had sworn more than once that he would die for his friends.

How could Sirius have crossed over, sold Lily and James to Voldemort, blown Peter to pieces?

The grief and anger and disbelief threatened to kill his soul.

Had everything Remus had known been a lie?

Had Sirius fooled them all for years? Had he always been one of Voldemort's followers?

Or had the change been more recent? Had something happened to lure Sirius to the dark side?

Or had it all been some terrible mistake, a misunderstanding, and James and Lily weren't dead, and Peter's finger wasn't all that was left, and Sirius wasn't a mass-murderer, laughing in his Azkaban cell?

Remus was a realist, but he clung to that impossible hope so that he didn't drown in his misery.

Of course, impossible hope can only last so long, before it flickers and dies like a flame starved of oxygen. And Remus' hope flickered and died and Remus was left in the darkness.

Because James and Lily _were_ dead, and Peter's finger _was _all that was left, and Sirius _was _laughing in a cell in Azkaban.

And Remus was all alone, with everything he'd believed in destroyed, with his life empty. He'd lost everything, everyone, his whole world a twisted mess, like the candle the flame had abandoned.

He couldn't deny it, he couldn't fight it, couldn't find any way around it.

And finally, hours and hours after he'd heard the news of Lily and James, hours after he'd heard about Peter and Sirius, the emotions that had been fighting for release broke, and Remus Lupin cried and cried, tears racing each other down his face and dropping from his jaw, pooling on the carpet, and sobs ripping from his throat, echoing around the room and breaking the silence that had previously smothered it, and his whole body shaking, shaking, so violently it almost physically hurt, so furiously it might never have stopped, and the grief and horror and anger wouldn't fade and leave him, but instead hit him again and again, great big black waves of it, reminding him again and again of what he'd lost.

It was a long time later that the tears finally ran out, that the sobs caught and died, that the shaking calmed and slowed and finally stopped, and Remus Lupin lay curled on the floor, his eyes swollen and blood-shot, his throat raw, his body aching.

And he lay there in silence, still, allowing the cold and the dark to block out those big black waves that tried to drown him.

He refused to think, and didn't have the energy left to feel, so Remus Lupin lay there for a long, long time, broken and empty.

-----

It would be years before Remus would learn the truth, and the truth was hardly better than the lie he'd come to believe.

James and Lily were still dead, their son still orphaned.

But Sirius hadn't killed Peter; instead Peter had faked his death and sent one of his oldest friends to rot in prison. Peter had been the traitor they'd trusted, the stranger in their group, the murderer in their midst.

He hadn't lost all three of his friends, though. James was gone, and Peter was lost forever, but Sirius had been returned to him, and Remus' soul could heal.

Somehow, though, those emotions he refused to acknowledge remained close to the surface, waiting. The waves of grief and horror and anger were ready, poised to crash upon him again.

The emotions, the waves, they knew that fate was cruel, that fate would take Remus' last friend away.

And they were ready for Sirius Black to die. 


	15. When It Matters

15. When It Matters

Bellatrix was the scary one. The oldest, the bossiest, and the one you didn't mess with. Her eyes, from a young age, showed the outside world that she was capable of murder. Even before Voldemort gained power, and struck fear in the hearts of people everywhere, everyone who knew Bellatrix Black knew she would take lives one day. 

Andromeda was the quiet one. The middle child, often over-looked, the one you knew would listen to your problems. In truth, she wasn't quiet at all, but hid her true self from her family, for fear of rejection. Those who knew the real Andromeda knew that she would soon stop caring about her family's judgment, and choose her own path. In time, she did, she accepted their rejection - however much it hurt that her family could take away their love so easily - and turned her back on them forever. In her own way, she was the strongest, because she dared to risk everything for what mattered to her.

Narcissa was the baby, and she knew it. She was also the weakest. She didn't seek power like Bella, she didn't fight for her beliefs like Dromeda. She simply accepted what she was told, never questioned the values that were forced upon her, and instead did what was expected; marrying a pure-blooded wizard - a death eater - and bearing a son. She loved them both, but sometimes wondered if it would matter to anyone if she didn't.

The day Andromeda left it rained. Narcissa remembered it clearly, because it hurt that her sister was willing to walk away from her. In truth, Cissy had always been a little afraid of Bella, and had counted on Andromeda to protect her. Andromeda was the one who took time to talk to the youngest sister, the one who'd listened to her fears and comforted her after nightmares. Their parents despised all signs of weakness, and Bella didn't have time for the baby until she was much, much older.

Andromeda didn't speak when her parents shouted at her, that rainy October day. She cried, silently, and packed up her stuff, but she knew no words could convince her parents they were wrong. She knew asking for forgiveness would earn nothing, and so she packed silently, while Bella glared and Cissy watched in silence.

Cissy was the one who walked her to the door. She caught the look Bella gave her, and knew she would have to come up with some excuse for doing so later. But for now she didn't care.

"Don't leave." She whispered. Andromeda sighed sadly.

"I can't stay here, Cissy. I don't belong here."

"But I don't want you to go."

"You can't always have what you want. Maybe one day, you'll break away too." Andromeda said wistfully.

"I won't." Cissy replied.

"Probably not." Andromeda murmured. "If you ever do, Cissy, if you ever change your mind, I'll be there for you. I'll forgive you, no matter what. Always remember that."

And Cissy watched her go, knowing she'd meant every word.

"Won't you miss her?" She'd asked Bella later.

"You don't miss blood traitors." Bella replied flatly. "As far as I'm concerned - and you should be too - she's not our sister anymore."

And so Narcissa had accepted that, and pretended to believe it. She'd never questioned the views she held, and always considered Andromeda stupid for throwing away her family and her honour for a muggle. She'd never thought that some things were important enough to risk everything for, until the moment she'd stood over the still form of Harry Potter.

He was the same age as her own son. There were barely months between them. Narcissa had never expected to feel anything for this boy, but in that instant, when she believed him dead, she did. He was an orphan who'd risked everything for what he'd believed in, just like Andromeda.

And then, then she'd felt his heartbeat. And she'd whispered the question, as quietly as she could. _"Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?"_

And the _yes_ she'd received had filled her with relief. Her son was alive.

Of course, so was Harry Potter. She didn't care who won or lost anymore, didn't care about anything other than finding her son. But she couldn't send this boy to his death, could she? Even she was human enough to see that.

"He is dead!" And she lied. She risked everything for what was right.

She didn't know it at the time, but Narcissa had finally found her strength.

----

Sometime later, Narcissa saw her oldest sister fall to the floor, dead, and felt nothing. By the end, she'd hated Bellatrix, hated her for her evil, for the contempt she'd shown Narcissa's son and husband, and for, all those years ago, stopping her leaving with Andromeda. It was then, seeing her sister laid on the floor, lifeless, that Narcissa realised she'd always missed Andromeda, realised she had to see her, had to find out if the offer of forgiveness still existed.

And that was why, three weeks after that day, she knocked tentatively on her sister's door.

Andromeda opened it, clutching a baby. For a moment, Narcissa didn't know who the child was, and then she remembered. The boy was Andromeda's grandson, and an orphan.

"Cissy?" Andromeda murmured, looking shell-shocked. Narcissa nodded, and searched for words. She'd tried to decide what to say, but how could you apologise and beg for forgiveness after all these years?

"I'm sorry." She whispered finally, in the same, almost childish, voice she'd asked her to stay, all those years ago. "I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch, I'm sorry for everything I've done, I'm sorry for your daughter."

Andromeda looked at her for a long while, and didn't speak. Narcissa knew, in that instant, that it was too late for forgiveness. She turned away took a step, before Andromeda spoke.

"Wait. Are you really sorry, Cissy?"

Narcissa turned back, nodded.

"Bella killed her. Bella killed my baby." Andromeda said, with the faintest hint of hysteia in her voice.

"I know. She was determined too...I told her to leave it, to carry on pretending none of you existed. I couldn't stop her."

"Harry said you saved his life." Andromeda told her, calmer now.

"I couldn't let him...He's just a boy."

"I've missed you." Andromeda whispered. "I've missed you so much. I'm sorry I left you."

"I'm sorry I stayed. I'm sorry I never thought to question what they taught us, like you did. You said you'd always forgive me."

"I will. I do."

Neither were sure exactly how it happened, but the next second they were hugging.

And Narcissa felt the overwhelming sense of finally being complete.


	16. Tears

**16. Tears**

**Remus Lupin x Nymphadora Tonks.**

He sensed her tears.

They were taking her out, transporting her to St. Mungo's for treatment, and they hadn't yet dulled her pain. She was crying softly, only half conscious. He moved towards her swiftly, pushing away his grief and taking her hand.

It was better to be strong for others, rather than to break.

"Are you OK?" He asked, and her eyes fluttered, then opened, and a slight frown formed on her face as she tried to focus on him.

"Hurts." She murmured, in the weakest voice he'd ever heard.

"You're OK, Tonks. You're OK."

"Don't leave me, Remus." She whispered.

"Never." He replied softly, but she'd already slipped back into blackness.

And he held her hand and gave her strength, and she wasn't on her own.

----

She sensed his tears.

He'd been with her every day of her hospital stay; she'd grown to depend on him. She'd hoped he'd be there as she was released, but he wasn't, and she couldn't explain the disappointment, or why she'd come to headquarters to find him.

The house had been empty, silent, a stark reminding that it's only occupant was dead. Tonks accepted the shiver of guilt, and felt the sorrow at the loss of someone she had liked.

But she'd been told Remus was here, so she climbed the stairs on a hunch. She'd heard the tears from outside the door, and after gently pushing it open she found him, slumped on the floor against one wall, looking at a picture hung opposite.

"Remus?" Her voice gently alerted him to her presence, and he swiftly brushed the tears from under his eyes.

"Go. Go away." He said sharply.

"No." She replied simply, and crossed the room to him, crouched down, and circled his shoulders with her arms. Only then could she see the picture; four school boys, stood together, happy and free.

"They're all gone now." He whispered. "I'm all alone."

"You're not. I'm here." She told him, just as quietly.

And she sat all night and held him close and he didn't feel alone.

----

He sensed her tears.

But they were happy tears, accompanied by laughter, as she told him they were going to have a baby.

She was glowing, and he smiled to please her, hugged her so she wouldn't see the regret in his eyes.

A few days later, he left her, and sensed her tears again.

He wanted to go to her, and hold her hand, and promise never to leave.

Instead, he closed the door behind him and left.

And she hugged herself, and cried for hours and wished he'd just come home.

----

She sensed his tears.

He was looking at their son - _their son _- with amazement and love and pride, his eyes shining.

"Look. Look." He whispered, like an excited child, as she beamed at him. His smile faded, and he met her eyes. "I can't believe I tried to leave you. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's OK." She assured him quickly. "You're already forgiven. Just...don't leave me again. Promise me." She seized his sleeve, and searched his gaze.

He knew she was no longer talking of him walking away, but of him dying. And although he knew it was a promise he couldn't guarantee to keep, he nodded.

"Promise."

He promised her and held her tight, and prayed she wouldn't end up on her own.

----

He sensed her tears.

He was bleeding. It wasn't a killing curse that had hit him but something else, something slower and yet not painful.

Maybe he was already too lost to feel the pain.

His killer had moved on, but she was kneeling by his side.

"Open your eyes. Open them." She ordered, her voice shaky. "You promised me! You promise!"

He opened his eyes with the little strength he had left, and she clutched his hand even tighter. She knew he wouldn't survive. Even if the blood pouring from his chest hadn't told her, his eyes would have.

"No. You _promised._" She sobbed, and he wanted to tell her he'd meant to keep it, wanted to tell her how much he loved her. But he could barley keep his eyes open.

And when Bellatrix Lestrange loomed over the couple, Remus wanted to tell his wife to look out, and when she sent that green light at Tonks before she could turn, he saw the life leave her eyes less than a second before his own heart gave up.

And they lay in peace and holding hands and neither were left alone.


	17. Nightmares

I haven't really got any of this pairing, so I figured it was about time. Could be applied to any couple though, I think.

Couple of minor changes to the end of the last chapter, can check it out if you want. I didn't finish reading it through before posting it, I had to get off the computer, so I didn't realise I hadn't fixed a few little things.

17. Nightmares

Ron Weasley x Hermione Granger.

When the nightmares came, they only had each other.

They both dreamed of death. It was understandably, of course, expected even.

He dreamed of watching his brother fall to the floor - slowly, always slowly, his subconscious drawing it out for as long as it could - of blank eyes staring up at him, humour still etched on his face.

He'd wake up, sometimes with a cry, sometimes in silence, sweating and gasping for breath.

He wouldn't be able to sleep again. He daren't sleep again. So instead, he'd rise, and move through the house like a shadow.

She'd dream of death in general. The flashes of green light, the people - none of them clear enough for her to see who they were - falling down, just crumpling to the floor. She dreamt of the heat of curces and jinxes as they missed her, barely missed her. She dreamt of bodies - so many bodies, so many, just laid all around, some laid still and peaceful, some broken and bleeding, cast aside like a spoilt child's toys.

She'd wake, shaking, too hot, or too cold, imagining flashes of light in front of her eyes, or Death Eaters looming out of the corners.

She'd try to calm herself, but it was so hard to do so. And, her breathing harsh and laboured, she was scared of waking Ginny. So, instead, she'd pull on a robe and leave the room.

They'd both end up downstairs. Almost every night, they'd meet in the kitchen, an unspoken arrangment. Both knew the other had woken from nightmares: both knew that the other knew. There was no need to speak of it.

Sometimes they'd talk, about mindless, shallow things. Cause the other to smile if they could, trying to erase the lost, haunted look in the eyes. Sometimes they'd just hold each other, seeking and giving comfort.

Once, she cried. He didn't know what to do when she cried. Was he supposed to speak, hug her, cry with her? What did a girl expect you to do when they were sobbing?

He tried to talk, murmuring any words he could find. He doubted she heard him, or listened properly. He gathered her into his arms, and, hoping this was what he should do, held her close.

Her tears slowed, and neither made any sound. Instead, they stood for a long time, their hearts beating against one another, exactly in sync, as though they were one.

Sometimes, only someone else's strength can fight back the nightmares.

When the nightmares came, they always had each other.


	18. Eighteen Years Later

**I've been meaning to do this for ages. I don't think it's fair we didn't see James' or Lily's first days at school. So, here's James', and Lily's is next.**

**18. Eighteen Years Later**

James Potter had woken up the same was as he always did; early and completely. He was always the last to fall asleep, the first to rise, and yet never seemed tired.

Today James had woken at four fifty-seven exactly, which was early, even by his usual standards. His first day at Hogwarts. The legendary school that almost everyone he knew had attended, the place where Voldemort had met his downfall - incidentally, to James' own father.

He couldn't wait.

James pushed a few owl treats through the bars of his owls' cage, smiling as the barn owl ate them quickly. The owl had been his eleventh birthday present from Hagrid, one of James' favourite people in the world.

"We're going today." He whispered. "Me and you, off to Hogwarts."

The owl, of course, said nothing. James, taking pity on his parents, dressed and made sure everything was packed before leaving his room, bursting into his parents' and diving on their bed, waking them both up instantly. Harry groaned loudly, as James' knee had sank squarely into his stomach. Ginny smiled and climbed out of bed, pulled on a robe.

"Breakfast?" James asked, smiling hopefully at his mother.

"Come on. What do you want?"

Harry sat up slower, smiling too as he heard James listing several things he wanted. His smile faded somewhat, however, as he remembered this was the day James would be leaving. Heading off to Hogwarts, where his parents couldn't protect him, where anything could happen...

Pushing the thoughts aside, Harry climbed out of bed, and headed out of the room. In the hallway, Al's room opened slowly, revealing the ten-year-old, who had obviously just woken up.

"Time to get up?"

Harry checked his watch, and sighed. Five-fifteen a.m. "Not really. Go back to sleep."

"James is up."

"I know."

"I want to get up." Al told him. Harry wasn't surprised.

"OK." He said, and Al left his room. Harry wasn't surprised when Lily's door opened either.

The eight year old was rubbing her eyes, but didn't hover in her doorway like Al did. Instead, she walked to her dad, and took his hand.

"James is going." She told him sadly.

"I know." Harry said, for the second time. The three of them walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Which was why Harry had to wake Lily when they arrived at King's Cross, and Albus was decidedly sulky. The younger Potter children needed more sleep than the eldest.

"Next year, James, try and stay in bed just a little bit longer." Ginny yawned as they entered the station.

"Yeah. Sure." James replied distractedly, his head spinning in every direction. "I see the barrier! I see it!"

Ginny caught the back of his t-shirt before he could run off.

"Hurry up, mum, hurry _up_!" James cried, tugging at his mother's arm. Harry, carrying Lily, and Al were a few feet behind, and so James had picked the parent he thought would get him there first.

"Come on. Come _on._"

Finally, Ginny and James crossed the barrier, the others right behind them, and James was met with the somewhat familiar sight of platform nine and three quarters.

All those years of seeing off Teddy, and now James was finally going onto that train.

"I wish Teddy was still there." He said, his gaze scanning the crowd. "Where do you think Fred is? Mum, do you see Fred?"

"James, calm down." Harry said from behind him. "Look - Fred's over there. Don't run off!" He added, louder, and Ginny grabbed his shirt again. Instead, the family made their way over to George, Angelina and their kids.

"Lily. Wake up." Harry muttered. "We're here." Lily opened her eyes, blinked, and allowed her father to set her on the floor.

"Here, I'll help." George and Harry heaved James' trunk and owl onto the train, and Harry thought fleetingly of his own first trip to Hogwarts. There had been no family to say goodbye for him, but George had helped him put his own trunk on the train. Harry remembered watching the Weasley family from the train - had he ever considered he'd be a part of that family one day?

When Harry turned back to his wife, Ginny was hugging James tightly, her eyes full of unshed tears.

"I'll be OK, mum." James assured her. "I'll write every week, OK?" And then, in a lower voice, he added; "Write to me, too, OK?"

"Lots." Ginny promised. "Be good."

"And if you can't be good, don't get caught." Harry added, forcing a smile. James grinned.

"I have the cloak. I won't get caught."

"Be careful with that cloak." Harry told him. "Saved my life, loads of times, that thing."

"I know." James said. "I will."

"Good." Harry said, and swiftly hugged his eldest. "Be safe."

"I will." James repeated, causing Harry and Ginny to exchange looks, both remembering how close they had each come to death in their own first years.

"Don't mess with Peeves." Harry warned. "And no duelling. Not until you know how."

"I know."

"And don't forget, Hagrid's invited you to tea -"

"On Thursday. I know."

A whistle sounded; for the first time nerves were clear on James' face.

"You better get on." Harry said, fighting the urge to pick up his son and run.

"Wait." Ginny pulled James into one last hug, kissed him, then realised him. James had taken a step to the train when Lily threw herself at him.

"When will you come home?" She asked, her arms tight around his waist.

"Christmas." James replied, hugging her back then forcing her to let go. "Really soon." He looked up, grinned at Al. "See you."

"Bye." Albus said. Neither would admit it, but Harry and Ginny knew the brothers would miss each other.

"Have fun." Ginny murmured, as James pulled the door closed behind him. Both he and Fred leaned out to wave, as the train jolted into motion.

"He'll be fine." Harry assured her

"I know." Ginny replied. "I know." They waved until the train rounded a corner. "I can't believe he's really gone..."

"Me either." Harry murmured.

"Hogwarts won't know what's hit 'em." George said proudly.

"That's true. Come on, kids." Harry said.

They exited the station, one kid down and very aware of it.


	19. Twenty One Years Later

**19. Twenty-One Years Later**

_She watched Teddy board the train, understanding for the first time where he was going, and thought about how she'd miss him._

_She watched James climb up on the train, and wished she could just see the place, the wonderful, amazing place, that everyone loved._

_She watched Al get on the train, and filled with jealousy and longing._

_She opened her eyes and smiled to herself: Lily Luna Potter was finally going to Hogwarts._

This was the worst.

Harry and Ginny Potter had seen off both their sons to Hogwarts. But this was definetly worse.

Lily was excited, bouncing all over the place, unable to stand still, and then unable to sit still in the car. Harry and Ginny were terrified.

Maybe it was because she was a girl; maybe it was because she was their youngest, but driving Lily to the station was so much harder than driving the boys.

"Maybe you'll be the first Slytherin." James told her. "And you'll have to sleep in the dungeons, and all the other little Slytherins won't like you and they'll put snakes in your bed and spiders on your plate -"

"James. Stop it." Harry said tersely. "It doesn't matter what house Lily's in."

"Yeah, but the whole family -"

"Albus. You too."

They fell into silence for several seconds, which Lily broke the second she saw the station.

"There! Stop the car, stop! We're here!"

"I know." Ginny murmured.

Ginny held her daughter's arm tightly as they entered the station and crossed the barrier. Her _baby_, off to Hogwarts?

"I see them! Look, they're over there!" Lily cried, pulling herself from her mother's grip and running to Ron, Hermione, Rose and Hugo.

"You OK, mate?" Ron asked Harry. "You look sick."

"I feel it." Harry muttered, watching his daughter. "She just doesn't seem old enough to be going away."

Ron smirked. "I said the same thing about Rose. You laughed."

"Yeah. Well."

"It's going to feel so weird, the house being completely empty." Ginny said to Hermione.

"I know. It was bad enough when Rose left, but now Hugo, too?"

"You better start the goodbyes." Teddy, who had come along to see Lily off, announced. Ginny hugged Lily before Harry could get to her.

"Be careful. Anything your not sure about, write home. And if it's urgent-"

"Go to Neville and he'll send a patronus. I know, mum."

"Stay safe." Ginny muttered. "And be good."

"I will." Lily promised, hugging her mother back. "Write to me, lots." She added, unashamed.

"Will do. Write when you get there. Well, maybe in the morning."

"OK." Ginny finally let Lily go, and the girl was seized by her father.

"The usual, right?" Lily asked, before Harry could speak. "No messing with Peeves, no duelling 'till I know how, and tea at Hagrid's."

"Pretty much." Harry grinned.

"I'll be fine." Lily told her parents. "I really will."

"We'll look after her." James nodded, as he and Al said their own goodbyes.

"We really will." Albus agreed.

"Wait a sec." Harry muttered, and beckoned his sons back over to him. "Any boys so much as look at her too long, break their legs."

"Will do." James and Al replied in unison.

Teddy hugged Lily tightly, then lifted her onto the train, simply because he could. He clapped James and Al on their shoulders, and grinned.

"Whatever you do, don't get caught." He said, as they climbed up behind Lily.

"Look after each other." Hermione told Rose and Hugo. "Try your best."

They all stood and watched as the train began to move. It was hard, losing your last child. There was a depressing finality about the whole thing, and when the train rounded the corner it felt as though she was never coming back.

"Do you think she'll be OK?" Ginny asked quietly.

"She'll be fine. The boys'll look after her." Harry assured her, more confident than he felt.

"I can't wait till Christmas."

"Me either."

**Oh, btw, I know Rose and Hugo's leaving scenes are sort of included, but I was thinking of writing leaving scenes that focus on them, unless people think there's no point?**


	20. The Strongest Bonds

I'm going to start work on Hugo anad Rose's leaving scenes soon, but this just came to me. Dedicated to a friend; she knows who she is, and she knows why. Over six years, dude, I'm surprised we haven't killed each other.

20. The Strongest Bonds

You see the way he looks at you. You remember that time, just a few days ago, that you - literally - bumped into him in the hallway. You remember how, for a few seconds, you felt his heart beat against yours. You remember the way he caught you, his arm tight around your waist, so you didn't fall to the floor. You remember the smile, the apology, the way the silver eyes looked into your own.

You remember the feeling, like you'd missed a step going downwards.

You remember the way you felt nervous all of a sudden, could barely speak. You remember the amusement in those eyes when he offered to buy you a drink in the Three Broomsticks, next Hogsmeade visit, to make up for it.

You remember the way you nodded, smiled, and agreed to his plans, when to meet up, where.

You remember how long it took you to choose your clothes. Your best jeans. Your favourite top. You remember walking towards him, where he waited outside the pub, and the sudden stab of something close to fear, because he looked at you and you thought he might like you.

He's older. A few years, not that bad, but still. And your families never got along, did they? And, after all, what do you really know about him?

But all that doesn't seem so important when he took your hand and lead you inside, or when he made you laugh over drinks, or when the two of you wondered around the little village together.

And when he looks at you like that, the nerves creep up on you, because you know he's going to kiss you.

And he does.

It made you feel special, didn't it? The attention. Made you feel wanted.

By the time he walked you to Gryffindor tower, you were already planning on how to tell your friends you were going out with Scorpius Malfoy.

"I'll see you around, Lily." Was his goodbye, however, and you felt an unwelcome doubt. Didn't he like you then? Didn't he plan on anything happening between the two of you?

So you told no one. And then, only because she mentioned him, you told Rose. Your best friend, the person you're closest to in the whole world. You couldn't help but grin as she smiled at you, told you what a cute couple you'd make. When she said she'd talk to him, get you together, part of you thought that was tacky and childish and stupid. But part of you wanted to let her.

You agreed that she could talk to him.

The party was fun. Gryffindor had beat Slytherin, so of course they had to throw a party. You saw Rose drinking firewhiskey, and blinked several times. Rose didn't seem the sort to get drunk.

But she was.

"Tipsy." She told you. "That's all. Anyway, I'm going to go talk to Scorpius now. I asked him to meet me in a few minutes in the owlery."

"What are you going to say?" You asked nervously.

"Don't worry." She told you. "I'll be back in a bit, tell you what he said." You watched awkwardly as she left the common room, and waited. Barely five minutes past, but it seemed longer to you, and you worried that something had happened to her. She wasn't all that steady on her feet.

You hesitated before leaving too, heading for the owlery. Just to make sure she got there OK. Just to listen to a little bit of their conversation.

They were at the bottom of the steps. You didn't realise, not straight away, what they were doing. And then you saw the way they were wrapped around each other, kissing, and absorbed the shock like a blow.

You turned and fled. You knew it shouldn't mean that much to you, and, in truth, you know he doesn't. You know he isn't yours.

But the fact that she would do that...

And then you stop, and lean against the wall, because it wasn't all down to Rose. He had kissed you, now he was kissing her. He had to know that his actions would cause trouble between the two of you, didn't he?

Why did he do it?

It's only minutes later that you hear the running footsteps, and then she's beside you, close to tears.

"Lily, I've done something so stupid. I'll understand if you hate me, if you never want to see me again. I've just -"

"I saw." You told her quickly, because you didn't want her to say the words. "I saw you."

"I'm sorry. I don't even know why. He was just saying he liked me and then he...I'm sorry. You mean so much to me, more than any guy ever. I'm sorry."

"It's OK." You told her, and found that you meant it.

"It's not. I'm so sorry, Lily, I'd never hurt you, you know that -"

"It's fine." You interrupted. "Really. I mean, I won't lie and pretend I don't mind, but I'm not going to fall out over some guy."

"You should." Rose sniffed. "You should hate me forever, and ever, and ever."

"Well I don't. If you meant less to me, or if he meant more to me, then maybe...but it's not worth it. He's not worth it."

"Really?" She asked, and you nodded.

Because that's what friends do. They forgive the mistakes.

She flung her arms around you, hugged you.

Friends comfort, too.

Together, you walked slowly back towards the Gryffindor tower.

You know you'll have a friend for life when you can survive the betrayals. You know your friendship was tested today, and you know it survived.

You haven't completely forgiven her yet, but you will. Some bonds can survive anything.

You count yourself lucky to have one.


	21. Letting Go

Definitly not my best workm but I've been sick the last few days, so there you go.

21. Letting Go

They often said he was over-protective, but Ron Weasley had seen and done enough to know that there was plenty in the world to hurt his precious kids. Hermione understood and was protective herself, but he knew he was worse for it than she.

When Rose was a baby, he'd make people wash their hands before holding her, lest a single germ go near his baby.

When she began to toddle, the first time she fell he refused to let her stand for a full week, until Hermione lost patience and told him their daughter needed to learn how to walk.

Once, when she was three, she choked on a pea. It was easily fixed, of course, but peas were never served to his daughter again. She believed she didn't like them.

When she was seven, she fell down the stairs of their home.

He cried, even though she was fine, because he'd never been so scared in his whole life.

----

Rose was excited, Hugo was jealous, Hermione was teary, and Ron was terrified.

A week ago, he'd said to Harry that Rose didn't seem old enough to be going to Hogwarts. Harry had laughed, but Ron was still struggling to believe she was old enough for school.

She was already wearing her new robes, even though he'd told her she didn't need to. She'd fixed him with that look, the one Hermione sometimes gave him, and told him she knew she didn't _need_ to, but she _wanted_ to.

He couldn't argue with that logic.

They walked through the barrier, Hugo clinging to Hermione's hand, though he would have vehemently denied doing so if anyone mentioned it, and Rose's head whipping all around, as though to check for watching muggles.

"But how come they never notice?" She asked Ron. "Someone must see sometimes."

"It's magic." Ron said easily, and Rose smiled.

Hermione was close to tears, her little girl, her first child, going off to school. Ron was almost shaking.

"Ginny's first year at school -" He began in an undertone to his wife, causing Hermione's gaze to whip round to him.

"Shh." She hissed. "Don't even start that. Don't." He nodded, looked away, scanning the crowd for his sister and best friend.

"Our first year -" He started, a few seconds later.

"Voldemort is gone." Hermione whispered fiercely, seizing his wrist, half to comfort him, half to silence him. "She'll be fine. Perfectly safe. You know she will."

"I know." Ron sighed. "OK."

And so he tried not to worry, as Harry, Ginny and the kids joined them, as he teased the children about the houses, as he spotted Draco Malfoy.

He failed.

Ron waited while Hermione hugged their daughter, while Rose exchanged goodbyes with Hugo, before seizing her and hugging her tightly.

"Be careful." He murmured into her hair.

"I always am." She told him. "I'll be OK, dad. Don't worry."

"I'm going to worry." Ron told her with a shrug. "Have fun, alright?"

"Definitly." She nodded, and was grinning when he finally released her. "Will you write?"

"All the time. And you have to write every night."

"Not every night." Hermione interrupted, smiling at them both. "As often as you can. Come on, you better get on the train."

And so Rose climbed on the train, nervous, excited, and turned to wave at her parents. They stood, side by side, arms around each other, in a way that Hugo thought was gross and she thought was sweet.

"I'll miss you." She told them, and then Albus climbed up beside her. It was only then that she noticed all the staring.

The next few months, she decided, were going to be interesting.


	22. The White Sheep

I know it's short, but that's why Jigsaw Pieces is here. And there wasn't anything else I could really have said.

Anyway, just a little idea I've had for a while, wrote this about a week ago but other stuff wanted to come before it.

Merry Christmas.

22. The White Sheep

All the Blacks had been in Slytherin, far back as anyone cared to remember. One after the other, they'd sit on that little stool, pull the hat on their head, and wait. For some, it was barely a second before the hat screamed "Slytherin." For others, it took a little while longer.

But all were in that house, all who carried the surname. And, of course, some who carried other surnames, but were still Blacks by blood. And there were some Blacks scattered in the other houses, those who were no longer allowed to belong to the family or use the surname, those who denied and were denied, but everyone knew they weren't really part of that family.

It was known the Black family were a dark family, the kind to avoid.

Andromeda Black nearly fainted when the hat told her she'd do well in Ravenclaw. She'd seen her big sister watching her from the other side of the hall, and known Bella would skin her alive if she wasn't in Slytherin.

I don't want to be in Ravenclaw. Put me in Slytherin, please.

And so it had.

Sirius Black hadn't questioned that he would be in Slytherin until he'd met James Potter. He hadn't really wanted to be in the serpent house, but had resigned himself to that fact that he would be. After all, that's what he'd been taught.

And then, when he sat himself on that stool, less than pleased, and heard that little voice, he nearly fell onto the floor.

Another Black? But not another Slytherin, I'm sure. Hmm...

It had seemed very natural to reply, in his head, with _I don't think I'm a Slytherin either. I don't want to be one. I'd rather break that tradition. _

The family won't be pleased though, will they? The hat had pointed out, and Sirius had forced away the image of his mother, screaming and angry.

I don't care. I can handle that. I don't belong in Slytherin.

Sirius didn't know it, but it was that statement, that willingness to face his family, that sealed his place in Gryffindor.


	23. Bittersweet Memories

23. Bittersweet Memories

Neville Longbottom hadn't considered being a teacher while he was still at Hogwarts. Well, as the boy who could barely stand a cauldron up the right way, the boy who mixed up his incantations and often waved his wand and had nothing happen, why would he ever consider teaching tomorrow's children magic?

And then, of course, came the events of his final year. When Neville finally focused, because this wasn't just about grades and what his grandmother would say. In his final year, it all became _real_, life and death.

And then when Minerva wrote to tell him Professor Sprout was retiring, and to ask if he'd possibly like to take her position, his first reaction was that his old teacher was losing it.

Who'd trust Neville Longbottom with the minds of the future?

And yet, when he'd tried to write a polite decline, the words just wouldn't come to him. Instead, he found himself thinking of how much he loved Herbology, of how easy it was to him, always, of how he'd like to be the one to welcome others to the wonderful world of plants.

And found himself writing a polite acceptance, instead.

Even after all these years, it was still a shock to look at a lot of the students. No one had warned him that he'd be stood in front of a classroom and see all too familiar eyes set in the face of one student, or look at a face that could have formed from his memories.

No one had warned him that he'd often be teaching, and find himself transported back, all those years, to when he, too, was small and innocent.

It was bittersweet, really.

No one had told him, either, just how strange it would be to look a Scorpius Malfoy. To see the face of an old enemy, with unfamiliar, bright blue, eyes. To see all the likenesses between father and son, and all the differences, too. To look up, see an all too familiar sneer, and have to remind himself that he was no longer eleven and powerless.

No one had told him, either, just how easy it was to slip up and call Albus or James Potter Harry, or to call Lily Potter Ginny. For at first glance, they could be mistaken for a parent, and it was so easy to forget you were the teacher now, and not the student. In the castle, the familiar surrounding, it was easy to forget that you knew these kids, you'd babysat for them, you'd eaten in their home. In the greenhouses where he'd spent so much time learning, he sometimes forgot that he was the adult, and his memories fooled him into thinking he was talking to a teenage Harry.

Strange, how easy it was too lose yourself in the past.

And strange, too, how much that clumsy boy, the one who had struggled in most classes and had often felt insignificant and invisible, was something of a hero to his students, for his part in the war and Voldemort's defeat.

Stranger still was how much he loved to teach.


	24. What Means The Most

24. What Means The Most

The colour pink means something to Teddy Lupin. It was the bright, bubblegum colour that his mother's hair had often been. It was the colour she wore it in numerous pictures. When he was twelve, he went through a phase of turning his own hair that colour, during the summer holidays, when he was alone, just to feel close to the mother he didn't remember. He never found out his grandmother had seen it, once or twice when he'd fallen asleep without changing it. He forced himself to stop when he went back to Hogwarts, deciding his friends wouldn't understand. 

For his entire life, however, bubblegum pink was the shade his hair turned whenever he felt lonely. He couldn't have explained how, but it helped.

The moon means something to Teddy Lupin. It was the symbol of his father's curse. It was a peice of rock that had ruled his dad's life, and had almost driven Remus Lupin from his wife and unborn son. Teddy had heard the story, had heard how his godfather had been the one to bring the man to his senses. 

Maybe it was the innate desire to see his parents as perfect, but Teddy didn't think Remus was a coward for leaving his mother. He understood that Remus had been trying to protect them, and had often thought it must take some kind of courage to walk away when you didn't want to, to put others before yourself.

But he agreed with Harry that it had taken bravery for Remus to return home.

The patronus charm means something to Teddy Lupin. One of the first stories he'd heard was how his dad had taught Harry how to defend himself against dementors. The terrifying creatures may be all banished to a secret island, but Teddy had forced himself to learn the difficult charm, seeking some kind of connection with the man his godfather had known, seeking to make the DADA teacher his father had once been proud. 

He'd been thirteen when he'd finally managed it. A shining silver wolf had leapt from him wand, and met his eyes.

His eyes mean something to Teddy Lupin. They weren't often their natural colour, as Teddy loved to play around with them, making them any colour, from bottle green to purple. However, naturally, they were grey, the same colour as his grandma's. Teddy hadn't liked them, because they seemed almost cold, and he felt grey was a boring colour. He liked them even less when he'd seen an old picture of Bellatrix Lestrange, and seen the same shade of grey looking back at him from her own eyes. He was ten at the time, and stopped wearing his eyes grey.

Until he was fifteen and saw a picture of his mum, taken at around seventeen or eighteen. Her eyes were their own natural grey, but held none of the coldness Bellatrix Lestrange's did. They were smiling, full of warmth and laughter. He changed his own back to grey, faced himself in the mirror. For the first time, he didn't see coldness, or didn't think they looked plain and boring. He saw warmth and laughter, just like his mum's.

From then on he allowed his eyes to stay their natural colour occasionally.

Cameras means something to Teddy Lupin. Not only because he liked looking at pictures of his parents, but because he'd found a whole box in his grandma's room filled with albums and loose pictures. There were lots and lots of pictures of him, taken in the short time he had had with his parents.

Every time Teddy saw a camera, he remembered that box of pictures, and thought of his parents.

The wolf means something to Teddy Lupin. He'd often thought it was almost unfair he was a metamorphamagus but not a werewolf. Wouldn't it be fairer to his parents if he was both? 

Maybe it was irrational, but Teddy couldn't let it go. By sixteen, he'd taught himself how to turn into an animal. That animal was, of course, a wolf.

Every full moon, he'd transform and stand by the window, looking at the moon. He was, by then, mature enough to understand that being a werewolf wasn't a good thing, wasn't something he actually wanted to be. But he still couldn't break the monthly habit.

His clumsiness means something to Teddy Lupin. He was often told he was just like his mother in that respect - it seemed that every time he moved he'd knock something over. Or fall over. When people teased him about it, or moaned that he'd broken something of theirs, Teddy just smiled. 

Every broken item, every time he ended up sprawled on the floor, was one more connection to his mum.

His daughter means everything to Teddy Lupin, from the second she is placed in his arms. She wouldn't be his only child, but she was his first, a metamorphamagus like himself and his mother. She had Victoire's blue eyes, and was born with the same blonde hair. 

Within the hour, the hair had turned bright, bubblegum pink. Even though a part of him knew his mum would probably have hated it, he named his daughter Nymphadora.

When she was four, she told him she didn't like the name.

He laughed for ten full minutes.


	25. The Innocent Can Never Last

Don't really know the point of this, other than I wrote the first bit as the intro for a story I decided against posting and wanted to use it, and I wanted some kind of interaction between Draco and Teddy. Anyway. Will get Hugo's leaving scene done when I get inspiration for it; right now I can't seem to get it written.

25. The Innocent Can Never Last

He woke from another nightmare, shaking and sweaty, and groaned. No twenty-two-year-old should be having _nightmares_.

Of course, some would argue that no twenty-two-year-old should be still living with his parents, or that no twenty-two-year-old should be jobless and living from his the family gold.

But none of the concerned Draco Malfoy. It was the nightmares that were the real problem.

From a young age, Draco had been taught the ancient family values, and had been told stories of "the greatest wizard of all time". Lord Voldemort, the king of dark magic, the man - would man be the right word in this case? - who had tortured and killed, who's very name struck fear in thousands of wizards.

Draco had admired him. His father had been one of Voldemort's followers, his mother had respected him. And, to Draco, Voldemort was the greatest creature to walk the world. The one wizard who'd had the guts and brains and power to try and rule the world, his way. The one wizard who few dared to face, or speak of, even years after his first, temporary, downfall.

Of course, no one had ever mentioned just had _red_ those eyes were, how they seemed to burn you when they fixed upon you, how they'd narrow in anger, darken when he killed, fill with cruel amusement when he knew you were scared. No one had described exactly how _white_ he was, with a hairless head that almost glowed in the dark, with the long, thin fingers, and the way that, on first glance, you'd think he was a skin-less skeleton.

No one had ever told Draco just how terrifying the man was. No one had ever told Draco how Voldemort would taunt him, threaten him, force him into things he didn't want to do.

And so, four years after Voldemort had finally been destroyed, Draco Malfoy would wake, shaking and sweating, regretting the day he'd let the most powerful wizard of all time burn the dark mark onto his skin.

At the time, he'd had few doubts. This was, after all, his lifelong dream. And he was sure that Voldemort would concur all, and Draco, as one of his followers, would command almost as much respect.

Of course, he'd been disenchanted quickly.

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, after quickly lighting the candle on his bedside table, letting the low light comfort him. Yes, he was scared of the dark. Sometimes, late at night, he'd swear that scarlet eyes were watching him in the shadows, or that a glowing white face was looming towards him. He'd hear high, cold laughter, and forget to breathe.

He couldn't sleep again now, not with the nightmare so fresh in his mind. Instead, Draco sat awake until the sun began to rise.

----

"Andromeda's coming over today." Draco's mother told him over breakfast. Draco darted a quick look at his father, who's face was carefully blank. Draco knew Lucius didn't entirly approve of Narcissa's re-formed relationship with her sister, but he also knew he wouldn't do anything to stop it, for this was important to Narcissa. It had taken only weeks after the final battle for her to seek forgiveness from her sister, and in the past few years they had grown closer again.

Draco hadn't spent much time with his long-lost aunt, but he liked her more than he'd liked aunt Bella, who, although she had fascinated him, had scared him.

"Is she bringing Teddy?" He asked after a while, and tried to look uninterested when his mother nodded.

A few hours later, when the four year old, bright blue hair and matching eyes, burst into the house, he couldn't hide the smile.

"Auntie Cissy!" The boy cried, excitedly, and hurled himself at Narcissa, who hugged him back. It never ceased to amaze Draco, the way his mother seemed to relax around her great nephew, and to show her emotion. For so long, she had kept a careful mask on.

"Hey, Teddy." Draco said, and Teddy spun round, grinning when he saw him.

"Hey, Draco." He replied, in an obvious attempt to imitate him. Then the boy gigled and ran to the sofa, jumping onto it beside Draco.

Narcissa smiled, almost sadly, as she watched, and wondered, not for the first time, what her life would have been like with her neice in it. From everything Andromeda had told her about Nymphadora, and from the girl's son, she had deduced it would have been interesting.

"Look." Teddy said to Draco, and screwed up his face. The next second, his hair was the same shade as Draco's.

"Well done." Draco said, aware that he was still smiling.

Teddy, delighted by the reaction, closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them, they were brown. Draco clapped - though briefly, stopping when he realised what he was doing. Teddy closed his eyes again - now they were green. Then grey. Then purple. Then scarlet.

Draco's smile vanished the second he saw the red irisis.

"Don't do that." He said sharply. "Don't ever have then that colour, Ted."

Teddy, too, stopped grinning. Looking crestfallen, he changed his eyes back to green.

"Sorry." Teddy said meekly. "Harry doesn't like it either. I won't do it again." Harry hadn't, Draco guessed, explained to the child just why he didn't like the scarlet. Niether would he; the boy didn't have to hear of such things.

"It's OK." Draco said quickly. "Don't worry about it. Ah - show me the purple again."

Teddy excitedly did so, and Draco found himself wondering what it must be like to be so innocent.

It was a shame, he thought, that the world wouldn't allow little Teddy Lupin to stay innocent for long.


	26. Remembrance

Apparently Teddy wants to be more involved in Jigsaw Pieces. Yep, he's in this one too.

26. Remembrance 

He didn't really know what to do with himself. He'd never felt at ease with people staring at him, and today there were people staring openly and people pretending not to, but shooting covert looks at him.

It angered him slightly. Today wasn't about him; today was about honouring and remembering those they had lost. But, since he couldn't exactly tell all the people around him to stop staring and remember what today was about, Harry forced himself to ignore them, training his eyes instead on the black velvet curtain hanging from the wall. Underneath that curtain was a thin sheet of gold, engraved with neat black writing, proclaiming the names of those who'd died.

It had been his idea, a way to make sure none were ever forgotten. He, himself, knew each and every name that was engraved on that huge plaque, for even the people he had never met weighed on his heart.

It hadn't been his idea to have a ceremony to reveal the plaque, though he'd agreed with it instantly. It hadn't, either, been his idea that he should be the one to unveil it. That was something Professor McGonagall had had to force him into.

He checked his watch; ten minutes to go.

Harry glanced around, scanning the crowd, unconsciously checking for his loved ones. It was a rather annoying habit he'd developed, the need to know where they were, to know that they were safe. The Weasleys were easy to spot, with Ron's parents clutching hands and stood in silence, their pain evident. It had been six weeks since the battle, and still Harry knew they weren't over Fred's death. Maybe they never would be. George was a few feet away from his parents, talking to Angelina Johnson quietly, looking strangly incomplete without Fred by his side. Bill, Fluer and Percy were stood together, talking to a few of the Hogwarts professors. Ron, Ginny and Hermione were stood with Hermione's parents.

They had never set foot in Hogwarts before, and Harry saw their wonder and excitement about the place. He also saw their respect for the ceremony, and the knowledge that it could just have easily been Hermione's name engraved upon that gold. The idea that their daughter could have died and they would never have known her existence still tormented them.

Because he had nothing else to do, Harry made his way over to Ginny and the others, greeting them vaguely before glancing around again. Andromeda had arrived a little while ago, with a sleeping Teddy and an awkward looking Narcissa. He was pleased the sisters had made up and were forging some kind of relationship, pleased that Narcissa had braved the ceremony and the distrustful looks she was getting.

"Harry." Professor McGonagall was beside him, and speaking quietly. "Kingsley is about to make his speech, if you're ready..."

Harry nodded, murmured a goodbye to the others and followed her through the crowd. Kingsley, stood beside the curtain, nodded to him, then caused a loud bang from his wand to silence the crowd.

"Good afternoon." He said, in his deep, slow voice. "And thank you all for coming. You all know what happened here six weeks ago, and you know why you are here. I would like to remind you all that the names you'll see shortly aren't just names, but people, friends, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters." He paused, and his gaze settled upon Andromeda and the baby she was holding. Teddy was awake and watching Kingsley in silence. "Some were mothers and fathers. Never forget them, and never forget that they died for you." He paused again, then looked over at Harry, who swallowed before stepping forward.

"Most of us here have lost people we loved and cared about." He said uncomfortably, focusing on a spot behind the crowd. "Um, hopefully, this plaque will make sure their sacrifice is never forgotten, and, ah, that they are all honoured like they deserve to be." Hermione had helped him write the little speech.

Harry turned back to face the black curtain, and waved his wand, muttered the incantation aloud as quietly as he could. A silent incantation may have been more appropriate, but that came with the risk that it wouldn't work.

The crowd gasped as the golden plaque was revealed, the floating candles scattered around throwing dramatic shadows across the surface of the metal and causing the black writing to shine. Harry had seen it a handful of times already, but never had it looked so impressive. He could hear the photographer from the Daily Prophet snapping pictures, but didn't turn; instead he read the plaque.

The words _In Remembrance_ were engraved at the top, then underneath and aligned left was the subtitle; _The Battle Of Hogwarts, May 2nd 1998._

And then came the names. Harry read them, recognised them, mourned them. _Fred Weasley._ Several more names, then _Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks Lupin. _More names came before _Colin Creevey._

There was a space, when those who'd died in the battle were finished, then another subtitle: _Lost To The War. _And then more names, an endless list, it seemed, of the witches and wizards killed on other occasions. Harry found more familiar names here, scattered throughout - _James Potter. Lily Potter. Cedric Diggory. Sirius Black. Albus Dumbledore. Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody. Ted Tonks._

And then, in the bottom, centred so the eye was drawn to it, was the plaque's final message. _They Died As Heroes. Never Forget._

He turned then, back to the crowd, and was blinded by the photographer's flash. Uncomfortable, he scanned the crowd, found the Weasleys, Grangers and Andromeda, Teddy and Narcissa, stood together near the front. He pushed his way to them, trying to avoid the camera.

"It's beautiful." Andromeda told him softly, and he murmured his agreement before asking if he could hold Teddy. She passed the baby over easily, while Harry accepted him with the air of someone being handed an explosive.

The camera flashed again; no doubt little Teddy Lupin would be appearing in the paper tomorrow. Harry decided not to care about that, and instead held the baby, taking comfort in his weight.

Teddy may be orphaned, but he was safe, his world was safe, and that was what thy had to focus on. Ginny smiled at him, with sorrow still in her eyes, Hermione nodded encouragingly and Ron offered him the vaguest grin.

They'd never forget, and would never forgive Voldemort for the damage he'd caused. But the scars they bore from the battles would fade, although never completely vanish, they'd rebuild shattered lives, overcome the memories, and they'd live, if only to prove that they'd survived. They'd make sure the future was worth the loss.


	27. Cold

27. Cold

They said she was cold. Sometimes they said it behind her back, quiet murmurings that she pretended not to hear. Sometimes they said it to her face, trying to insult her.

There were always people ready to insult a Malfoy, out of dislike or jealously.

She wasn't insulted by it, however. One cannot be insulted by something they know is true.

She was cold. She kept that distance, always, between herself and the outside world, because letting people close means they can hurt you more. She had, after all, let herself get close to both her sisters, an innocent child, unaware how much they could hurt her. Then Andromeda walked away and Bellatrix forced her into a world she didn't belong. Oh, she may share their believes, but she didn't share the Death Eaters' thirst for blood. In truth, she simply didn't care that there were muggles and muggle borns around her, as they were easy to ignore.

Both her sisters, in their own way, hurt her.

She let her husband close, and her son, although she tried her best to keep a distance with Lucius before she gave in. And, then, didn't she end up terrified that she would lose them?

Love caused pain and fear.

So she loved only them, because she couldn't fight that, and kept that distance with everyone else. She grew to despise the sister who had been returned to her, and during one argument, where Bellatrix spat that she was cold, Narcissa simply nodded.

"I know."

Coldness spreads, always, however, and the coldness she always kept around her began to seep inside. She didn't try to stop it - after all, wasn't it better to be frozen on the inside, too? To allow the cold to halt emotions? Why feel if it only hurts?

So she slowly froze, became the perfect ice queen. She welcomed the cold, the ice, the numbness it brought with it. At one point, she wondered if she died inside.

It should have scared her, the very possibility, but the cold smothered the fear.

One day, while arranging roses in the foyer, she pricked her finger on a thorn. The drop of blood on the surface of her skin surprised her - she hadn't thought she could still bleed.

And then came the fight. The end of the war. The Battle Of Hogwarts, they called it now, and spoke of the horror, the fear, the drama.

At the time, they'd known it would be the end, one way or the other. They'd known some would fall. She'd known that her son was inside the castle, and that he could easily be killed.

The fear was overwhelming, and the coldness tried it's hardest, but couldn't freeze it. The raw terror seemed to melt the ice, slowly, slowly, so that by the time she stood in the forbidden forest, and looked down upon the still form of Harry Potter, she could _feel._

She remembered Lily Potter. Narcissa had been a few years older than her, but she'd remembered her, and remembered what the Dark Lord said, how that young girl had sacrificed herself to save her son.

She remembered how Voldemort had threatened Draco, again and again, until she had to freeze herself to stop the nightmares and the terror.

She no longer cared who won; Draco was all that mattered to her.

And that was what fought the cold.

----

They still call her cold, though she knows it is no longer true, and they know it is not longer true. She still keeps a distance, because she isn't stupid - people hurt other people, and always will do. But it is no longer an icy distance, and she no longer lets any cold inside.

She knows, now, that ice is often as fragile as glass. And it is better to feel and be a little broken inside, than to be ice and shatter completely.


	28. Last But Not Least

Not my best work, I know, but I struggled. And I've just had a psycology exam, so my brain's refusing to co-operate, as revenge for making it remember definitions of validity and reliability and a bunch of ethical issues and socail influence studies and research methods and...well, I could go on, but I won't.

28. Last But Not Least

Hugo Weasley was the youngest child in his immediate family; he was the second youngest in his extended family. He'd watched several cousins and his sister head off to Hogwarts, year after year.

Finally, it was his turn.

It wasn't that big a deal for anyone else, he supposed. His aunts and uncles had seen their own children, as well as a number of nieces and nephews, head of on the scarlet train. His grandparents had seen their kids and their kids' kids go too.

Even his own parents had seen his sister leave.

Well, that didn't matter. He was excited about, it even if no one else registered that he was going away.

Hugo had been lain in bed, mostly awake but still asleep enough that opening his eyes was a struggle. He blinked blearily a few times before his vision cleared, then flung back the covers.

And yelped.

It was _freezing._ He yanked the quilt back over himself, and looked around the room distrustfully, wondering just why his room had become an ice cube.

His window was wide open. Well, that'd explain it. With a sigh, Hugo cast a look at the owl perched on top of his wardrobe, sleeping, and cursed himself for letting his pet out last night. And for leaving the window wide open. And for the fact that he'd now have to get out of bed, slam the window, and get dressed, in this cold, cold room.

Cringing, he jumped out quickly, shut the window, and changed faster than he ever had done, before fleeing the room.

The kitchen was warm, and Hugo sat at the table in silence, allowing the heat to wash over him until his shivers stopped.

"Leave your window open again?" Rose asked casually.

"Yes." Hugo muttered, ever so slightly annoyed.

"How're you feeling?" Ron asked, as he passed his son a plate. "Nervous?"

Hugo shrugged. No one pressed him.

----

The station was crowded, and Hermione grabbed Hugo's shoulder out of habit as they tried to navigate around the people. He wanted to shrug her off - he wasn't a little kid anymore, after all - but some how couldn't make himself do so. It was strange to think than in a few minutes - minutes, that was all - he'd been on a train, speeding away from his parents, his home, and staying away for months.

He stepped through the barrier, then felt the nerves intensify as they made their way closer to the train.

"I see them! Look, they're over there!" A familiar voice cried, somewhere nearby, then Lily Potter ran up to them. Their parents began talking quietly, and Lily waved a hand towards the train.

"Ten minutes, Hugo, can you believe it?"

"I know." Hugo replied, staring that the train. It looked so different now he was the one boarding it. Bigger, somehow.

It was only when his dad and uncle Harry had loaded the trunks onto the train that Hugo realised his mother was still clutching his shoulder. He looked up at her, and saw tears glimmering in her eyes.

"Are you OK?" He asked her, slightly panicked. He didn't deal with emotional women. Whenever anyone in their family cried, his dad would always usher him from the room as fast as possible, telling him that sobbing women were dangerous.

"Fine." Hermione said, with a very forced smile. "I'm fine." Then she caught her son in a hug that embarrassed and pleased him simultaneously.

"Hey." Ron said when Hugo finally freed himself, and drew his son aside. "Packed anything from the store?"

"Um..." Hugo replied, avoiding his dad's gaze. "Well..." He mentally went through all the banned Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products he'd packed, but before he could recount some of them - the ones that'd get him in the least trouble, Ron laughed.

"Don't tell your mother." Ron toold him, with a grin, then sobered. "Look after yourself, son."

"I will."

"And your sister. I know she's older, but she's your sister and you've got to look out for her."

"I know, dad."

"Don't get into too much trouble."

"I won't."

"OK." Ron hesitated, then briefly hugged his son.

Hermione finished her goodbyes to Rose, then turned back to Hugo.

"Be good."

"I will."

"Be careful."

"I will."

"Don't go into the forbidden forest."

"I - aw, mum, not even during the day? When it's light?" It had been a frequent argument over the last few weeks, always ending with him losing, but Hugo had to give it one last shot. He was, of course, planning on exploring the forest some as soon as he could, but it'd be nice to not have to worry about getting into trouble at home because of it.

"No. Not at all. And no sneaking out of the castle at night. I know James has the map -"

"You used to sneak out." Hugo pointed out, as he had done before.

"Only when it was important." Hermione said, the vaguest hint of annoyance in her voice and on her face. Then a whistle sounded; people began to clamber onto the train, and she faced letting her youngest child leave. "Write home, won't you?" She asked him quietly, and Hugo nodded. "Go on, get on. Love you."

"You too." Hugo murmured, and climbed onto the train behind Rose. "Look after each other." Hermione told them, causing Hugo to grin at his dad. "Try your best." She added. The train jerked into movement, Hugo's nerves doubled, and, just before they were too far away to see properly, he could've sworn he saw tears glimmering on his mother's face.

Apparently it didn't matter that he wasn't the first to go to Hogwarts.

"I'm going to miss him." Hermione murmured as the train rounded the corner.


	29. When The Flame Flickers

**29. When The Flame Flickers**

The candle's flame flickered.

Most would barely have noticed the flame's brief dance, have ignored it and carried on with whatever they were doing. Ginny Weasley, however, noticed the movement the second it began, and her head snapped up instantly. Her breathing quickened, and she scanned the room, searching the shadows even as she rationalised with herself.

Stop it. Stop it, now. The diary's destroyed and he's gone.

She knew that, of course she did, but she had to search the shadows.

Had to make sure.

Ginny, finally satisfied that she was alone in her bedroom, looked back down at the homework she was attempting. There were better ways to spend time, but she couldn't sleep and had to get this done.

It was almost one in the morning, and Ginny knew her mother would go mad if she knew she wasn't in bed. She'd get a lecture about being only twelve, about needing sleep.

But it was hard to sleep when your own mind tormented you.

The dream had returned again tonight, before she'd clawed her way out, lit the candle, and found her homework. She was back in the chamber, hearing his voice, his laughter, and feeling her energy dwindle, even as her fear increased. The thud of her heart beating, hard, almost as though it was desperate to remind her she was still alive, there was hope yet.

In the dreams she was always screaming, but Ginny didn't remember if she'd screamed at the time. She didn't think she had.

The scratching of her quill tried to fight the silence, but it wasn't enough. The beating of her heart tried to help, but that, too, wasn't enough. The silence tried to scare her, to pull her back. It had only been a few weeks, and the memories were still fresh.

She didn't know how she'd got there. Didn't know where she was. This was a part of the castle she'd never seen - was she even in the castle? Had she left the grounds? Was this even real?

She turned around, slowly, looking for the exit, or something, anything, that would get her out of here. The silence was immense, deafening, and made the whole situation all the more frightening.

She'd never liked silence. But it had never scared her before.

A loud creak made her jump, cry out, and as Ginny groped for the wand on the bed beside her, her gaze scanning the room, the shadows, flicking to the door and the window, a scream tried to form in her throat.

Then she heard the footsteps, and her gaze whipped to the door, as she finally found her wand and lifted it, clutching it desperately, aiming at the door.

She was expecting it to open, she was expecting Tom Riddle - Voldemort - whatever name he wanted, it didn't matter - to walk through it, with a sneering laugh and cold eyes.

Instead, she heard the bathroom door close.

Her breathing was still laboured, her wand still ready, and she sat there in her slightly-too-small pyjama's, her homework still on her lap, her quill on the floor with an upturned bottle of ink, waiting until she heard water running, then the door open, and the creaking of one of her brothers - it sounded like George's footsteps - making his way back to the bedroom.

She would have closed her eyes in relief - and embarrassment at her over-reaction - but she couldn't risk it. She was still too jumpy.

She set her wand down gently, and searched the quilt around her for her quill before seeing it on the floor.

"Damn." She muttered aloud, when she saw the ink bottle, on it's side and slowly sending it's contents across the carpet.

I'll get over it soon, I'll forget it, and I won't be scared anymore.

----

She was fourteen now, and the nightmares had stopped years ago. The shadows were no longer so threatening, the silence no longer reminded her of that event.

Most of the time.

He's back. He's back and real and alive. He's more powerful now that that stupid memory was, and the memory nearly killed me.

Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it. He won't even know you, won't even remember you.

Then she shivered, because she still remembered. The words, the promise, that meant so much to her at the time.

I guess I've made some friends, Tom, but I'm not really close to them. I sort of think if I went away or something, they'd forget I even existed.

She watched the ink sink into the page, then watched it rise again, brand new words shining where hers had been.

I'll never forget you, Ginny.

Would he still remember her? Would he attack her?

No, no, he couldn't get here, to Headquarters. Couldn't get into Hogwarts. She was protected, as long as Dumbledore was around.

The candle's flame flickered, and Ginny felt the old panic return. She scanned the room, the shadows, even though she knew it couldn't possibly be him.

She just had to make sure.

----

Dumbledore was dead. She wasn't safe, really was she? And no matter how many times she told herself Voldemort wouldn't even know her, wouldn't care if he did, wouldn't waste his time with her, the nightmares had returned.

She'd lay in the dark for hours, not daring to light a candle, for the dance of the flame fueled her fear.

It was hard to sleep when you knew you weren't safe.

----

The candle's flame flickered, and she scanned the room desperatly before she even thought about it.

It was all over, now. The war was over, many were dead, Voldemort was gone.

She was safe, but she was suffering, the loss of her brother, the things she'd seen, and she knew it would take a long while before that safety would allow her to sleep properly.

Still, she blew out the candle, because the flickering flame tormented her.

----

She couldn't sleep, so it had seemed a good idea to go downstairs, finish the Quidditch article for the Daily Prophet. The scratching of the quill, the beating of her heart, still weren't enough to break the silence, as they hadn't been twenty years ago, but Ginny was no longer a twelve year old girl, and the silence didn't bring on the memories.

Then the candle flickered, and her head snapped up again, her eyes searching the shadows, the force of the habit too hard to resist.

It's fine, he's gone, and I'm over it.

No, she wasn't. She never would be. She didn't think about the Chamber of Secrets, didn't think about Voldemort, not often.

But whenever the flame flickered, she just had to make sure.


	30. Daddy's Scars

For irelandforeverx3 who requested a moment between Harry and his daughter. I've been wanting to do this for a while, so thanks for making me finally get round to it. I'm quite happy with how it came out. Btw, I don't shorten Hermione's name to "Mione" normally, but it seemed appropriate for a five year old.

Oh, and since we're now at thirty chapters (wow), I thought I should thank all my reviews. So, thanks.

30. Daddy's Scars

"Daddy?" The house had been silent, with the kids asleep, or at least pretending to be, Ginny out with Hermione, and he himself dozing in the chair, but Lily's voice broke the silence and made him jolt up, his slight panic fading when he saw his five year old daughter stood in the living room doorway, stood in lilac pjs and clutching her stuffed tiger.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, and Lily shook her head, walking towards him.

"I can't get back to sleep. I had a bad dream." She told him, as she climbed up in the chair with him.

"What about?" Harry asked, wrapping his arms around her small body.

"You." Lily replied innocently. "I dreamt that you got really badly hurt. Daddy, James was telling me stories earlier on. Are they true?"

Harry held back a sigh, guessing - correctly - what stories his eldest son had been sharing. His eight year old asked questions all the time, and since Harry had a firm policy on not lying to his children, James knew about most of Harry's past, even if Harry hadn't imparted all the details.

"That depends, bubble. What did he tell you?" Harry asked, and Lily paused thoughtfully.

"Well, he told me about the scar on your head, but I already knew about that, didn't I? About the bad man, who killed you mummy and daddy, and tried to kill you. But James said that that scar -" she touched a pale, thin finger to the oval shaped mark on his chest, "- was from a piece of the bad man's _soul_, that was inside a locket you had to wear. James said that one day, the bad man nearly killed you and aunt 'Mione, and because he was close the locket _stuck_ to you. He said aunt 'Mione had to cut it off you. Is that true?" She was looking up at him with wide eyes, trying to understand something too complex and unknown for her to truly comprehend.

He was temped to tell her James was only joking, to make up a simple, less frightening, story for her, to sooth her young mind and chase her bad dreams. But he himself had been lied to as a child, had with lived half-truths and missing pieces, and had promised each of his children, as he cradled them as newborns, that he wouldn't lie to them.

So instead of telling her a comforting lie, Harry nodded.

"It's true. But we broke the locket and...and got rid of that bit of soul, and that helped us win the fight in the end." He explained gently, and her eyes widened, just a little, for surely they couldn't grow anymore, and her mouth opened slightly in surprise and horror.

"Really? Did it hurt?" She looked back at the scar, faded and faint, but undeniably present.

"Well, no, I guess not. I was...asleep when Hermione did it, so I didn't feel it." He'd been, instead, watching his parents' deaths through someone else's memories.

"Wow." Lily murmured, and touched the scar again. Then she looked back up at him. "I dream-ded the locket choked you and squashed you." She told him quietly.

"It didn't." Harry told her. "It wasn't big enough to squash me." A memory returned, of an ice cold pool and a gold chain tightening around his throat. "And it never managed to choke me."

Lily smiled, evidently assuming he was joking. Then her smile faded.

"James said that before you and aunt 'Mione got away, the bad man's snake _bit _you."

"It did." Harry agreed, and saw her gaze settle on his arm, her face filled with wonder as she looked at the spot James had told her about. With a slight sigh he rolled up his sleeve and showed her the tiny marks. Nagini's legacy.

"Did _that_ hurt?"

"Well, yes, I did. But your aunt Hermione got the snake off of me, and we got away. You don't need to worry about it."

"James said it was a really big snake, and it had a bit of the bad man's soul in too, but uncle Neville killed it." Lily told him, her tone indicating she was no longer doubting her brother's honesty.

"He did." Harry told her. "That helped us win the war, too." A silence passed, in which Harry wondered what else James could have told her, and Lily debated with herself.

"I dreamt the snake was in my room." Lily told him finally, in a loud whisper.

"The snake's gone." Harry assured her. "She'll never come back."

"Are you sure?" Lily asked, looking at him with the innocent trusting only the young could manage.

"Yep. But if you want, I'll check your room."

Lily nodded, evidently relieved.

"Are you ready to go back to bed now?"

Lily nodded again, and Harry stood, lifting her as he did so. As he started up the stairs, he heard tell-tale footsteps rushing across the landing, and knew his boys hadn't really been asleep.

"James, stay in your own room, please." He said absently as he passed the open door. "And both of you, sleep now."

"Night, dad." James replied innocently.

"Yeah, night." Albus echoed from his own room, a slight giggle in his voice.

"Night, boys." Harry called back, as he stepped into Lily's room. He waved his wand, causing the room to illuminate, then set his daughter on her bed, proceeding to search the room thoroughly for a long-dead snake.

"See? Nothing here."

"Thanks, daddy." Lily said, climbing under the covers.

"Welcome. Feel better now?" He asked, and she nodded.

"Daddy, James said that you - and aunt 'Mione and uncle Ron, and mum, but mostly you - that you saved the whole wide world. Is that true?"

"Ah..." Harry hesitated, not really knowing how to answer. "I helped save the world." He said finally. "Maybe...maybe I had more to do with it than some people, but I wasn't the only one who fought Voldemort, and his followers, and everyone who helped is important. Everyone who died, everyone who lived. Most of your mum's family fought in the war, in that last battle. Teddy's parents, too. We all have the scars."

She was too young to understand that he meant emotional scars, as well as physical, and so her reply was simply; "Like uncle George's ear?"

"Yeah, like uncle George's ear." Harry nodded, and brushed her hair back from her face.

"Was it really scary? The fight at Hogwarts?" Lily asked him quietly. "James said you weren't scared, because you're brave, but I think I'd be really, really scared."

"I was terrified." Harry told her, tucking the quilt around her shoulders. "Being scared doesn't mean you're not brave. But's don't worry about it, OK? It's all over now, you're safe."

"I know, daddy." Lily replied. "Night-night."

"Night." Harry murmured, and kissed her forehead. "Love you."

"Love you, too, daddy." Lily replied sleepily. Harry lit the candle fixed on the wall, then turned out the light. He was halfway to the door when Lily spoke again, her eyes closed and her voice heavy.

"Daddy? James said scars are really cool. I think so, too."

By the time he turned back to her, she was asleep.


	31. Light In The Dark

For margaritafariasw who asked for a Neville/Hannah story.

31. Light In The Dark

Neville Longbottom x Hannah Abbot

He hated funerals. He'd only been to a few, until recently, but he'd always hated them.

Lately, however, they'd become an uncomfortable part of his life. The last few days had been a difficult mess of funerals, of dark robes and flowers and tearful goodbyes.

Neville paid his respects, had said his goodbyes - though not tearfully - and had tried to fight the feeling of emptiness.

The fight was over, the war, the danger, and with it the sense of purpose he'd developed over the last few months had deserted him. A part of him - a tiny part, almost, sort of, wished for a fight, a battle, to make him feel that there was a reason for him to be in the world.

It was, however, his secret, for he knew speaking it aloud to anyone would cause judgment, and possibly disgust.

So instead, he mourned the dead with everyone else, celebrated the end of the war with everyone else, and that tiny, irrational part of him was ignored.

This was Colin Creevey's funeral. Neville had barely known the boy, but he had helped carry his lifeless body into the castle, and he needed to pay his respects to a young boy who shouldn't have died.

Colin's parents and brother were at the front of the small church, his mother sobbing and clinging to her husband and son. Neville felt a pang of sympathy as he watched the broken family leave the church when the service was over. With a sigh - Colin hadn't deserved to die, none of them had - he stood and began to make his own exit.

"Neville?" The voice came at the same time as a hand lightly touched his arm, and Neville stopped at the sound, the touch, turned to the girl.

"Hannah. I didn't know you were here." He said, though in truth he hadn't been looking for a familiar face. It was hardly the place for idle conversation, or a recap of recent events, and so he'd been content to sit alone.

Hannah didn't reply, but began to walk with him.

"It doesn't seem fair, does it?" She murmured, her gaze on Colin's family climbing into a car. "He was so young, he didn't do anything wrong. I didn't know him, really, but...it doesn't make sense, Neville. What was the difference between me and him? Why did he die when I survived?"

He stopped walking then, and so did she as he turned to face her.

"You'd rather it was you in there? In that coffin? Your friends and family stood around here crying?"

She blinked, because he sounded mad at her. "He had a real family, Neville." She said, her voice uncharacteristically cool. "He had a whole, complete family, who will never be the same again. They're broken now, and it's not fair." She glared at him. "My _family _is already broken. My dad's destroyed by what happened to my..." She stopped, raw pain on her face. "My death wouldn't make him any worse."

"Hannah..." Neville murmured, but found no other words. "He'll get better. He will. If he lost you too, he'd never recover."

She shook her head. "He wouldn't know the difference. He found her. I told you."

"I know." He remembered.

It was January, about halfway into the month. He remembered how everyone was still really worried about Luna, and how her kidnap had made them all work harder in their DA meetings.

Ginny was by the door, making sure everyone got out OK. It was the DA's policy that no student would go back to their common room alone after a meeting - indeed, that no student should be alone at all in the castle - so everyone was leaving in pairs or threes. He was straightening up the room, with a couple of other people. He glanced up as someone moved nearby - Hannah was shelving some books - and had already glanced back at what he was doing before he realised she was crying.

"Hannah? Are you..." She looked up when he spoke her name, hurriedly brushing tears from her face, and he reconsidered his question. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She said quickly, rubbing her face with her sleeve. "It's nothing."

"You're crying." He told her, because he didn't know what else to say.

"It's just...it's just that today would have been my - my mum's birthday."

"Oh." He remembered the previous year, when she'd left Hogwarts following her mother's murder. "I...I'm sorry."

Hannah didn't reply, just brushed away the fresh tears. "My - my dad's still not over it. He was the one who found her. He came home and she was d-dead, just dead on the living room floor. He's like...it's like he's not really there. He's drinking himself into oblivion night after night and just...just sitting around all day, and I don't know what to do about it, I don't know how to fix it, I-I can't...there's nothing I can do."

He hugged her awkwardly, because someone had to, and felt her cling to him. She'd been optimistic all year, smiling and joking and laughing.

It was only now, as he felt her desperately hugging him, crying silently, with those still in the room staring at them, that he realised her cheerfulness was false.

She'd been wearing a mask for months, and no one had looked close enough to see it .

From that moment on, they talked, often and for hours, sometimes about the world, the war, sometimes about their families and their childhood. Sometimes about shallow, mindless things to distract them both.

"It will get better." He murmured. "I have to believe that - you have to believe that."

"Why?" She didn't say it bitterly, or sarcastically, or with any of the coldness or anger she'd held only moments ago. It was a genuine question, seeking a genuine answer.

"I..." He didn't have an answer, and realising that made the world seem so much darker. He thought of all the years he'd spent hoping his parents would recover, and suddenly belief, hope, didn't seem such a good thing after all.

And then he wondered how much worse it may have been if, as a little boy, he hadn't had that hope. How much worse his early Hogwarts years may have been if he hadn't believed Hermione, every time she told him he would get better at it.

"If you don't have the hope, you'll get lost in the darkness." He told her. The words seemed strange to him, and he had a wry thought that they were too smart, too wise, for him.

"OK." She said, and this time he was the one to blink stupidly.

"That's it? You'll just accept it, believe me?" He asked.

"I trust you." She replied simply. He was surprised, for few people had ever accepted his answer as truth. "Come on, we better start moving."

He nodded, but before they could move he spoke again.

"Hannah? I'll help you, however I can."

She smiled at him. It wasn't a fake, forced smile, worn to fool the world. It was genuine, it was bright, it was real.

"I'll help you too, if you ever need it." She replied softly, then the two of them began to walk.

They reached the Creevey's house, where the wake was being held, and she took his hand before they entered.

Not very relationship-y, I guess, but I think it shows the potential.


	32. Unwanted Attention

Actually wrote this on Monday, so could've kept my updating-every-day streak for one more day, but I wasn't happy with it so I didn't. And yesterday was my stupid college hours so I had no chance to get on a computer. (Between nine a.m and nine p.m I'm home for an hour. My other break is only for two hours, and there's no time to get home since it takes an hour to get to college and to get back. It's fun. I know that no one actually cares, but I feel the need to explain.)

Anyway, I'm still not completely happy with this, but I can't do much more with it.

Dedicated to Danielle-R-Weasley who suggested this.

32. Unwanted Attention

He saw the looks they were getting, and they made him nervous. Well, who likes to be stared at?

It was the first time he'd entered platform nine and three quarters, and his staring-around-in-wonder was interrupted by the discomfort of the looks that were being sent his way.

His parents were resolutely ignoring the looks and whispers, but Scorpius couldn't help but glance around as they moved closer to the scarlet steam train, and wonder why people were looking at his father with open hostility.

"Dad, why's everyone staring?"

It wasn't as if it was the first time he'd noticed that some people tended to be rather cold towards his dad, but this was different. This was - as his maternal grandmother would have sniffed disapprovingly - rude.

Draco Malfoy sighed, and looked down at his son. They were only a few feet away from the train now, and so he stopped walking, crouching down to be eye-level with his son. It was about time, he reflected, that he warned his son that he may not be accepted warmly by his peers.

"You remember what I told you, about - about that wizard, and his death eaters and what your granddad did, and what - what I did?" Draco asked, his voice low, his expression one of shame.

"I remember." Scorpius nodded.

"Well...that's the reason they're staring. I...A lot of them know that I was...well, some people still don't trust me, or our family."

"Some of them are just curious." Scorpius' mother added. "Your father's side of the family are well known, not just for...ahem, their activities during the war, but for donations, and -"

"I know." Scorpius interrupted, because while he may only be eleven years old, he knew his mum was trying to make him think people weren't staring for negative reasons. And he wouldn't have fallen for that one when he was, like, six.

People didn't send looks like _that_ for positive things.

"Don't let it bother you." Draco added, and clapped a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Will they stare at me?" Scorpius asked, slightly panicked. He couldn't live with people staring all the time.

"Probably at first." Draco nodded, deciding against imparting false hope. "But they'll get over it."

That didn't make him feel better, somehow. He cast a look around the station, with nerves mounting. He hadn't been that nervous before; he'd been excited about going off to school and learning magic. But now, he had butterflies in his stomach.

He was sidetracked then, as butterflies are quite girly, and he tried to think of something more boy-related that could be attacking his stomach. Sharks, maybe...

"Scorpius? Are you OK?" His mum asked then, interrupting his thoughts. Scorpius nodded, then saw that his mum looked more nervous than he was. "I'm going to miss you." She added, and hugged him. It was an annoying habit that both his mother and his father's mother had, to hug him until he struggled to breathe, and if nothing else, Scorpius was happy to see the hug-free weeks stretching out ahead of him.

When he was finally released, Scorpius turned to his father, opened his mouth to speak, then saw his dad's gaze shift, away from him and across the station, turning, he saw a family - no, it must be two families - in the midst of their goodbyes. As Scorpius watched, a red-haired man said something to a black-haired man, and they both looked over. As Scorpius turned back to his dad, Draco gave a nod to the men, then looked back down at his son.

"Was that Harry Potter?" Scorpius guessed. He'd seen Potter in the papers, lots of times, and so was unsurprised when Draco nodded.

"His son's going this year, too." Scorpius' mum told them both. "And he's already got one there." She looked at Draco, a smile ghosting around her mouth. "Maybe they'll be friends."

Scorpius turned away from them then, because if his mum was teasing his dad, it was a given that gross parental sappiness would follow. He looked back at the people his dad had nodded towards, wondering which kid belonged to who.

They were all hugging and waving and laughing, and if you didn't notice that there were four adults, you may think they were just one - albeit large - family.

"Scorpius?" Draco said suddenly, and Scorpius turned around. "Are you OK? Nervous?"

"A bit." Scorpius shrugged. "I'll be OK, though."

"I know you will. Stand up for yourself, OK? And - and watch out for Peeves, and..."

"Be good." His mother added. "And write home, OK?"

"I will." Scorpius nodded. A whistle sounded, and he looked around in slight confusion, never having been in the station before.

"You better get on." Draco murmured, and looked suddenly ill. Scorpius had the vague wonder at what his parents would do without him at home. The house would probably seem so empty without him, and his parents would be so lonely...

He climbed up onto the train, with difficulty, trying to ignore how short he felt, and turned back to face his parents.

"See you at Christmas, then." He said, and hoped his mum wouldn't burst into tears.

Draco nodded, and glanced around, as though for potential threats to his son.

"If there's any problems -"

"Dad, I'll be fine. I'm not a little kid anymore."

"You're only eleven." Draco replied, then smiled. "OK, fine. You'll be fine."

"Yes, I will." The train jolted suddenly, and Scorpius felt the butterflies - sharks - increase in strength. He waved, confidently, he hoped, and his parents waved back until the train rounded the corner.

Scorpius turned around, then nervously set off to find a compartment.

The other kids kept looking at him. Some whispered. One girl even pointed him out to her friend.

Scorpius dived into the first empty compartment he found and closed his eyes, just for a second.

Hopefully, people would get bored of him very, very soon.


	33. Names and Insecurities

Well a few of you asked if I'd do moments between Harry and his sons. Well, I had no other ideas, so I figured, why not. Not really sure how old Albus is in this, but I tend to think young, around six or seven. It's up to you how old you want to imagine him, though.

Short, I know, but it's all it needed.

33. Names and Insecurities

"Dad?"

Harry had been halfway out of his son's room when he'd spoke.

"What?" He asked, turning back.

"Your dad was called James, wasn't he?" Albus Severus asked, sitting back up.

"Yes." Harry replied, stepping closer to the bed.

"And Sirius was your god-dad." Al continued, not meeting Harry's eyes, a slight awkwardness to his voice.

"Right."

"And Lily was your mum's name."

"That's right." Harry nodded, unsure where this was going. Albus hesitated, then looked up, meeting Harry's eyes with his own identical ones.

"And my name...my name was just the old headmaster...How come James and Lily got more important names?" He looked, very much, like a hurt little boy trying desperately to act as though this wasn't important. Harry cringed, and sat back on Al's bed, to give him the explanation he now realised was over-due.

"Albus Dumbledore wasn't just my old headmaster." He said firmly. "Your brother and sister were named to honour my parents, who died to save my life. You know that. You were named to honour someone who spent fifteen years keeping me alive. Even your middle name - Severus -"

"I know who Severus was." Albus said, a spark of anger in his eyes. "Uncle George told me. He was your old potions teacher. He was mean, and ugly, and never washed his hair, uncle George said."

Harry sighed, and decided to have a word with his brother in law about what it was and wasn't okay to tease the kids about.

"Yes, he was. And for most of my school years, I hated him. Most of us did." It wasn't the right thing to say, clearly, for Al looked down at his quilt, miserably, as though Harry's words had confirmed something for him.

"But you know what?" Harry continued quickly. "He was friends with my mum when they were little, and he loved her, and he was the one who told Dumbledore that Voldemort was coming after me and my parents. Because of him, they were able to go into hiding, and...and to live a bit longer. To prepare. And when they died, him and Dumbledore both cast the spells that kept me alive for the next sixteen years. That's why we named them after you."

"So - so...James and Lily's names aren't more important than mine?" Albus asked, looking relieved.

"No, they're not. Albus Dumbledore was a great man, and you should always be proud of that. And Severus Snape was the bravest man I knew." Harry explained, knowing his son didn't - couldn't - truly understand, never having been under threat of death before.

"I..I thought...James and Lily were your favourites." Albus said quietly, his gaze still firmly on his quilt.

"They're not. I don't have favourites." Harry said truthfully. "And, Albus?"

He waited until the boy finally looked up. "Your name shouldn't mean that much to you. The name doesn't define you; you define it. You can make that name mean anything you want. OK?"

"OK." Al nodded. And when Harry tucked him back in, and left the room, little Albus went to sleep with a smile on his face.


	34. James' Laughter

Yes, another insecure son for Harry. I don't know, the idea just came to me. I think this is even short that the last one, but, like the last one, it says all it needs to.

34. James' Laughter

Harry was in the kitchen, trying to cook. He wasn't that terrible a cook, not really, but James' first comment, upon entering the kitchen, was a dramatic, "You're not making tea, are you?"

"Yes, I am." Harry replied.

"Oh no."

Harry rolled his eyes. A brief silence passed, then James' spoke again.

"Is Al your favourite?" It wasn't said quietly, or sadly, or even awkwardly, but as though it was something he was mildly curious about.

"What? Of course not." Harry replied, turning to face his eldest. "What would you think that?"

James shrugged. "He looks like you." And while this made little sense to Harry, it made perfect sense to a nine year old.

"So do you." Harry replied.

"Al looks _more_ like you. And you have the same colour eyes." James said, and Harry saw that, behind the casual curiosity and the ever-present grin, James was serious.

Harry sighed. "That doesn't make him my favourite. You have the same colour eyes as your mum. Does that make you her favourite?"

"I might be." James shrugged with a grin. Harry shook his head, but couldn't help smiling.

"Well, I don't have a favourite."

"Course not." James muttered under his breath.

"James. When I look at you, I can see parts of myself. I can see parts of your mother. You have the same eyes, like I said, and every time I see yours I'm reminded of how much I love her. But I can see myself and your mum, not just in the way you look, but in the way you are." He spoke in a firm, brisk tone, because that was the best way to speak to James, if you wanted to keep his attention.

"But there's also parts of you that are just _you, _uniquely you, and I'm grateful for all of them. I love you just as much as Al, or Lily, OK?"

"OK." James said, then smirked. "You like having me around, then?"

"James, without you around, I'd spend a lot less time laughing." Harry replied, and meant it.

"Good. Oh, and dad? I think something's burning..."

James' laughter, and Harry's curses, reached Ginny upstairs, as did the smell of burning. She sighed, but smiled too, as she made her way out of the room. No one could say life was boring.

By the time she reached the kitchen, her smile had grown wider and wider. James' laughter was infectious.


	35. Eras and Ends

Wormtail's question at the bottom sounds more like a girl thing, I know, but I didn't know how else to phrase it. Besides, most of the guys I know are kinda girly. In fact, _all_ of the guys I know...

35. Eras and Ends

James Potter entered a compartment on the Hogwarts express, more excited than nervous. Most of the compartments he'd passed were full, but this one had only two occupants; a girl with her face pressed against the window, and a dark-haired boy who looked up at James and said, "Hi."

"Hiya." James replied, stepping forwards with relief. He didn't bother asking if he could sit in here, as the other boy had shifted over to make room. Instead, James threw himself down and smiled. "I'm James."

"Sirius." The other boy nodded. "First year, right?"

"Yep. You too?"

Sirius nodded, glanced at the girl, then shrugged to show he was unconcerned by her presence. The next few minutes passed with the two boys talking and laughing.

It was the beginning of an era.

----

They watched the girl and Snivillus leave the room, still giggling. Eventually, James turned back to Sirius, and titled his head.

"Slytherin? All of them?"

"Well, yeah." Sirius shrugged. "Some of them were probably in different houses, but my mother wouldn't consider them family anymore."

"Pure-blood pride." James stated, his face giving the impression the words tasted bad. Sirius nodded.

"Not me, though. Don't worry about that. I think the whole idea's stupid. And, believe me, I'd rather not be in Slytherin."

"Good." James replied, looking clearly relieved. "What's your surname?"

Sirius told him, half expecting James to look disgusted, or to make excuses and leave the room. Instead, he nodded.

"I think I've heard that before. I'm Potter."

And that was all that was said on the matter for the rest of the journey.

Sirius was always grateful.

----

The DADA teacher turned slowly to face the room full of third years, her eyes narrowed and deadly. A thick layer of dark blue slime coated her, and most of the front of the classroom.

"_Mister_ Black." She cried, her voice shrill enough to make the students in the front row wince.

"Yes, Professor?" Sirius replied innocently, even as his friends shook with silent laughter around him.

"Are _you_ responsible for this?" She demanded, then spoke again before he could answer. "If this is your handiwork, Black, I'll make sure you're out this time." Her voice dropped to a deadly mutter. "Dumbledore told you, didn't he, that if you caused anymore trouble this year, he'd have to expel you?"

Sirius was unconcerned by threats, far too used to them, and so, with a smirk, he opened his mouth to offer a smart remark.

Beside him, James spoke first. "It wasn't him!" He lied loudly. "It was me. I did it."

Sirius turned to him, open-mouthed. James could scarcely afford to get in more trouble than he could. The DADA teacher scowled, knowing she had no way to prove otherwise.

It wasn't the first time either of them had taken a hit for the other, and it wouldn't be the last.

----

"God, Sirius, you could've killed him!" James hissed, pale, sweating, and breathless.

"He'd have gotten out fine." Sirius shrugged. "Besides, I didn't _tell_ him to go down there, did I? He should've kept his greasy nose out of our business."

"Sirius!" James cried, exasperated. "_He could have died._" When Sirius looked unconcerned, James shook his head. "And you're lucky Dumbledore came down before he could shout his mouth off. What if Moony's secret got out?"

For the first time, Sirius looked slightly guilty. "It was just a joke."

James sighed, and leaned back again a wall to catch his breath. "Dumbledore's not happy."

"I better go see him." Sirius sighed.

"Yeah. I'll come with you."

And he stayed by his side, supporting him, throughout.

Because that's what friends do.

----

"We're getting married." James cried, his face alight, his eyes shining, and Lily's hand clutched in his.

His three friends started whooping and jumping around. It was ten full minutes before they all calmed down.

"I'm the best man." Sirius announced, as though it was his choice.

"That's OK, isn't it?" James asked Remus and Peter anxiously.

"Of course." Remus replied instantly, still grinning.

Peter remained silent, his smile fading.

But James and Sirius had always been the closest.

----

"A baby?" Remus repeated, his eyes wide. Beside him, Sirius' mouth was open, and Peter looked as if someone had hit him over the head.

"Yes!" James cried jovially. "Can you believe it. Me and Lily are going to have a baby!"

Sirius was the first to recover, and swiftly guy-hugged James, before Remus and Peter did the same.

"I can't believe it. A baby. You. And Lily." Sirius told him, grinning. "Well done mate."

"Congratulations, James." Remus said.

"Yeah, congratulations." Peter nodded. James hesitated, then spoke again.

"Listen...I want...well, we thought Sirius..."

"Could be godfather." Remus guessed, without any sign of disappointment.

"Yes." James nodded. "You guys don't mind, do you?"

"No." Remus answered instantly.

"And you two'll make sure he doesn't screw up my kid completly, right?" James asked, smirking. Sirius threw a cusion at him.

"Yep." Remus nodded. James looked a Peter, who was silent.

"Do you mind, Wormtail?" He asked. "About Sirius being the godfather?"

Peter looked at James, then at Sirius, before smiling. "No. Course I don't."

Later, though, when James had left and Sirius was in the bathroom, Peter turned to Remus.

"Does it bother you, that Sirius and James are so close to each other?" He asked. Remus blinked.

"Well, no. Not really." Remus shrugged. "Does it bother you?"

"No." Peter replied flatly, and turned away.

Around fifteen years later, Remus wondered if that moment had been the beginning of the end.


	36. The Favourite

Wrote this ages ago - well, sometime last week - and forgot all about it. Remembered it on the bus to college today, though, so here it is. Just because I always wondered if Andromeda and Sirius ever saw each other after his breakout. I used Lexicon to try and figure out the age differences, but I don't know when Andromeda actually ran away...so its as acurate as I could make it.

36. The Favourite

She was older than he, by several years. But always, she was his favourite. She wouldn't sneer at him, or tell him to stop looking at _those muggle things_, or try to fill him with pure-blood pride.

Instead, she'd tell him stories, and say it was okay for him to be fascinated by motorbikes, and once, when he was eight years old and he asked her if pure-bloods really were better than muggle-borns, she looked nervously around, then met his eyes and told him he'd have to figure it out for himself.

When he was ten, she left her family and married a muggle-born. When Sirius heard, he grinned widely, and wrote to her, telling her in his childish scrawl how proud of her he was.

When he was thirteen, he heard that she'd had a daughter; he snuck out of the house one night and caught the night bus to Andromeda's house. She opened the door to him, and nearly burst into tears at the sight of him, half-nervous, hafl-defiant, with a smile she'd missed. When she'd asked him, her voice shaky, what he was doing here, he replied with a bright, "I've come to see my favourite cousin."

"You'll get into so much trouble, Sirius!" She'd hissed, but she let him into her home, introduced him to her husband and let him hold her daughter. He spent several hours there, before she apparated him home. He told her she better go, fast, and that if he was caught he wouldn't admit where he'd been.

"I won't let them hurt you." He told her, and she was deeply touched by the protectiveness of the young boy, the only member of her family to _feel_ like family.

She watched him climb up the house and through the window, and waited outside for ten minutes. If he was caught, she was sure she'd hear something from inside the house. If she had to, she'd rescue him, get him away from them and take him home.

She'd told him never to do it again, for it was too risky. He ignored her, as she'd known he would, and several times during the holidays he'd visit her. She never admitted it, but she was glad of it.

When he was sixteen, and he left home, the first thing he did after moving into James' was visit her.

"I broke away." He told her when she opened the door. "I'm not one of them anymore, either."

She hugged him then, two outcasts, and told him she was proud.

He visited her often over the next few years, babysat her daughter and laughed with her husband. They were the only relations each could claim to have.

And then when she saw his picture on the front page of the Daily Prophet, the headline screaming that he was a murderer, a Death Eater, she cried.

"Not Sirius." She whispered. "Not Sirius."

She refused to believe it, and Ted refused to talk about it, when Dora heard about it, she looked Andromeda dead in the eye and told her it was all lies.

"It's just a mistake." She said flatly. "It'll work out. Can we visit him in prison?"

They couldn't, of course, it wasn't allowed, but for months Andromeda was tormented by the memory of a teenage boy risking everything to see her.

The years passed and she forced herself not to think of Sirius, of her favourite cousin, not to argue with herself whether he was innocent or not. When he broke out, she cried again, because the headlines still screamed that he was a murderer. She found herself laying awake some nights, listening for the sound of the doorbell, imagining that she'd see him, stood on her doorstep, half nervous, half defiant, with a grin and telling her he'd come to see his favourite cousin.

And then Dora told her Voldemort was back and that she'd joined the Order of the Phoenix. And she talked Andromeda into going to their headquarters for dinner on night, grinning away and refusing to tell her why.

He was waiting in the hallway. He looked older, and he'd changed so much, but she still recognised him.

"Sirius." She whispered.

"Hey." He said, and offered her a little grin. "Did you come to see your favourite cousin?"

She'd laughed and hugged him and told him he'd worried her half to death.

He laughingly apologised, and then they talked for hours, and it was just like when they were kids. She saw the little changes in him, the things Azkaban had done, but also the boy he'd been, the spirit that refused to break. He saw the maturity she'd developed, as well as that girl who'd never tried to change him, and her worry, her bone-deep worry for her daughter.

"I won't let them hurt her." He promised her, and she remembered the protective teenager he'd been.

He was always her favourite.


	37. Everyone Lies

37. Everyone Lies

Everyone lies.

- When Ginny Weasley was eleven, she swore to her brothers that she didn't have a crush on Harry Potter. She swore the same when she was twelve, thirteen and fourteen, too. She was lying every time.

- When she was thirteen, Hermione asked her if the whole Chamber of Secrets thing still scared her, shamed her, and upset her. Ginny had shrugged and told Hermione that it was all in the past, and she was over it. Hermione knew she was lying, and pretended not to.

- When she was going out with Dean and Ron, Fred and George got all stupid and protective, she told them they were idiots and annoyed her. She lied; she loved that they were protective of her.

- Speaking of Dean, when he asked her if she still liked Harry and was just using him, she rolled her eyes and told him Harry was just a friend. She felt guilty about that lie long after she and Dean split up.

- While Harry, Ron and Hermione were off hunting Horcruxes, Neville asked her if she was worried about them, scared for them. Ginny shook her head, and - convincingly - told him that she believe in her brother and her friends, that she knew they were going to make it alive and win the war. Yet she was unable to sleep at night, terrified that tomorrow would be the day the three of them would be killed.

Everyone lies.

-When Hermione Granger was nine, a girl in her primary school teased her about her hair, and promptly found herself bald. Hermione told the teachers and her parents that she hadn't done it - in truth, she knew she had, she just didn't know how.

- When she was sixteen, Ginny asked her if she _liked _Ron. Hermione replied with a horrified "No!" They both knew she was lying.

- Before she wiped her parents' memories, her mother, close to tears, whispered, "Are you going to die?" Hermione shook her head, told her that she wouldn't, of course she wouldn't, all the while knowing the odds were against her.

- A few days before Harry arrived at the Burrow, after their sixth year, she and Ron secretly got drunk on firewhiskey. Ron told Hermione he loved her, and she said it back, meaning it. In the morning, she told herself she didn't mind that Ron didn't remember it, that she hadn't meant it anyway. It's strangely easy to believe your own lie.

- In the weeks after that final battle, people kept asking her if she was alright. She told them, over and over, that she was fine, but she didn't know if she'd ever be alright again.

Everyone lies.

- When Nymphadora Tonks was little, she and her mum were in Diagon Alley when they saw Bellatrix Lestrange. Her mum didn't tell her who she was, just told her never to go near her. Her dad told her not to be scared, though, and she told him she wasn't. She had a nightmare that night.

- Her dad - and then Remus - called her Dora. She said she preferred it to Nymphadora, but really she hated it just as much and lied to keep them happy because she loved them.

- When she was at Hogwarts, someone said something about Sirius Black, the mass murderer. Tonks had a fight with that boy, and told everyone Sirius was really innocent. She told herself that she didn't doubt Sirius at all, ignoring that little part of her that wondered if maybe, just maybe, the cousin she barely remembered _was_ guilty...

- When she first joined the Order, Sirius, smirking, asked her if she fancied Remus. She lied and told him no.

- When Remus prepared to leave for Hogwarts, he kissed his son goodbye, then her, and asked her to stay and look after Teddy. She replied "I will."

She lied.


	38. Devotion and Pride

Haven't posted anything here for a couple of days, but I've been working on a new story, _Rain._ I've got about four chapters written, and I like the concept, I like bits of it, but I'm not satisfied and it's driving me mad that I can't get it good enough, because I want to continue it. Plus, I've starting writing a Teddy story that I'll hopefully post in a few days, so between that and _Rain, _Jigsaw Pieces will probably suffer from neglect for the next few days.

Anyway, enough of the crazed ramblings (I just really hate it when I can't make a story good enough), and on with this. Which has been begging to be written since chapter 25, but which I'm not entirely satisfied with. It seems to be a running theme. Anyway, let's pretend this one is better than it actually is, and get on with it.

Oh, and thanks for all of the reviews, I'm amazed Jigsaw Pieces has collected so many. I'll stop now, though, because at this rate my AN will be longer than my story.

38. Devotion and Pride

Teddy Lupin's sixth birthday party was just beginning, but they child was already laughing as the Weasleys and his grandmother fussed over him. His hair was emerald coloured, today, in a messy style resembling his godfathers. His eyes were a deep blue, almost purple, and full of laughter as George Weasley opened a box of magic balloon animals, which scattered throughout the room.

The doorbell chimed, and Harry, who was nearest, left the room to answer it, catching a balloon giraffe on his way. He opened the door with the giraffe in his hand and struggling to escape, a smile on his face.

The smile faded as he realised who was stood in front of him, awaiting entry.

He knew, of course, that Andromeda had made up with her estranged sister. He knew that she and Teddy often saw Narcissa and Draco. Narcissa had been at several of Teddy's birthday parties.

He knew Teddy liked Draco, that they got on well, but somehow it had never occurred to him that he'd attend the party. They'd seen each other around in the years since that night, but Harry didn't think they'd ever spoken to one another. And yet, here, they'd have to speak, wouldn't they?

Narcissa cleared her throat slightly, as though to remind him that they were there, waiting. Harry fought a sigh, forced a smile, and stepped back to let them in. Narcissa hung up her cloak and breezed past, used to being in her sister's house, and almost relaxed around the Weasley family. Draco removed his own cloak slowly, and looked at Harry uncertainly.

"If this is going to be a problem, I'll leave." He told Harry candidly.

"Wha...No, it's no problem." Harry managed, and coughed awkwardly. "I just didn't know you'd be here. You don't usually..."

"Teddy asked me to." Draco explained. "I wouldn't have, but he was so desperate for me to be here..." He looked past Harry, through the open door into the living room. "Am I going to get punched in there?" He drawled.

Harry half-laughed. "No. We all know Teddy likes you. No one wants to upset him."

Draco nodded, but clearly didn't relish the idea of going into the room. Finally, Harry took pity on him.

"Come on." He turned, entered the living room, knowing Draco would follow. "Teddy?" Harry called, and when the boy looked up, he gestured at Draco.

Harry couldn't help the pang of jealousy when Teddy saw Draco, and leapt to his feet. "Hi!" he cried excitedly, running over. "You came!"

"Said I would." Draco shrugged, his cheeks colouring as everyone looked at him.

"Look." Teddy said, holding out a balloon wolf that stretched and growled realistically. "My uncle George got me them."

Draco's eyes flickered around the crowd. "That's nice."

"So." Ginny said loudly, breaking the awkward silence. "Who wants cake?"

----

"You can't go home yet." Harry turned at Teddy's voice, saw Draco near the doorway, attempting to put on his cloak. Teddy was clinging to the expensive material and preventing Draco succeding. "The party isn't over."

"I know, mate, but...I..." Harry fought a smirk as Teddy fixed Draco with a look he knew would get his own way, wide eyes and turned-down mouth. "Fine." Draco sighed. "I'll stay a bit longer, but Ted -"

Teddy was no longer listening; he hand shoved a balloon monkey at Draco and bounded away.

"He knows how to get around you." Harry commented. Draco glared at him. "You really don't want to be here, do you?" He added, wondering why Draco was sticking around.

"I really don't." Draco agreed.

"So why not just leave?" Harry asked.

"Because I care about the kid, Potter. I'm not going to hurt him, not even a little bit - he doesn't deserve it." His voice was savage, his eyes glaring at Harry, but the words were genuine.

"Why?" Harry asked honestly. "Why would you care about Teddy?"

Draco shrugged, and Harry didn't push it.

Later, when a tired Teddy curled up next to Draco on the sofa, and fell asleep with his head on Draco's shoulder, Harry felt another stab of jealousy. It had always seemed to him that Teddy thought he, Harry, had hung the stars in the sky. Apparently he had the same devotion to Draco, and as childish as it seemed, Harry's pride took a knock that night.


	39. Imperfect

Not as neglected as I expected, it appears. This idea wouldn't leave me alone, though. Connected to 30, 33 and 34, I guess.

39. Imperfect

One of the hardest thing for a child to learn is that their mother doesn't have a solution for everything, that she isn't perfect, but in fact is only human and makes mistakes like everyone else.

"Mum," Lily Potter, all of five years old, said suddenly, as she watched her mother cook. "James said daddy kill-ded a giant snake when he was twelve."

"He did." Ginny replied, far too used to her daughter questioning the things her brother's told her. A natural sceptic, her little girl.

"Why? What did the snake do?" Lily asked, almost outraged.

Ginny hesitated. "Didn't James tell you?"

"Well...yeah..." Lily admitted. "But I didn't know if it was true. He said that the snake was pet - petri -"

Ginny smiled as her daughter struggled to pronounce the word. "Yes, it was."

Lily looked at her mum carefully, meeting her eyes. "James said you were possessed by Vold-ie-mort, and he was making you let the snake out."

Ginny didn't speak for a moment, ignoring the memories that came back to her.

"James was telling the truth." Ginny said finally. "I was."

Lily's eyes widened.

"How?" She asked, breathlessly. Ginny knew James had probably told Lily all this. She also knew Lily would accept it unless she herself confirmed it.

"I...I found this diary." Ginny explained, lifting her daughter up and setting her on the work top in front of her. "I started writing in it and...well, it wrote back. It had...it had a bit of Voldemort's soul in it, and...it could posses me. Control me."

Lily's eyes widened even further, and the innocence in her daughter scared Ginny a little bit.

"I...Voldemort - or Tom, as I knew him - used me to open the Chamber of Secrets, and let out the snake."

"James said that it made you go into the Chamber of Secrets and tried to kill you."

"Yes, he did." Ginny nodded. "That's why your dad had to kill the snake. He broke the diary too, and saved me."

"But mum...didn't you know what it was doing?" Lily asked.

"I figured it out." Ginny nodded. "And then I tried to get rid of it but...well, it's a long story."

"So you nearly died." Lily stated.

"Yes. I did. But it was a long time ago."

Lily regarded her mother uncertainly.

"I made a mistake." Ginny murmured quietly. "And I regret it."

It dawned on little Lily then, that her mother wasn't perfect. Her mother didn't always do everything right. She slid slowly from the counter and left the room in silence, her world suddenly a lot more confusing.

Three days later, Lily walked into her parents bedroom, early one Sunday morning, and climbed into their bed.

"You OK?" Ginny murmured sleepily as she made room, and Lily nodded.

"It's OK that you made a mistake, mum." Lily whispered. "It doesn't matter to me."


	40. Her Personal Protector

This idea kind of formed while I was writing the last Jigsaw Piece, adn when I started thinking about it and sort of mentally writing it, I loved it. So here we go. May be a little too sickly sweet, but I'm sure we'll manage. Too short, but there was nothing else to say. Oh, and we've reached forty. With no intention of stopping.

This is set right after the last one, btw, and connects to it.

40. Her Personal Protecter

She'd wanted her kids to all have green eyes, ever since she was eleven. When she looked down at the newborn James, she felt the tiniest prickle of disappointment that he had her own eyes. Then the baby looked right at her, and despite what they say about newborns being unable to smile, she swears to this day that he did.

And suddenly his eyes didn't matter a damn to her.

"Mum?" James Potter rubbed his eyes as he entered the kitchen, where Ginny was making coffee. Ginny had been up only minutes; James had heard her desend the stairs and followed. "Al said I shouldn't tell Lily all the stuff you and dad tell us. You know, about when you were younger. He said I scare her or upset her. Do I?"

Ginny paused, considered. "Yes, a little bit." She replied finally. "But it doesn't really matter; she'll find it all out soon anyway."

"I don't mean to upset her, or scare her." James told her honestly.

"I know you don't. She knows, too." Ginny assured him quickly. James lasped into silence, and moments passed before he spoke again.

"Were you scared? When you were eleven and all that stuff happened?"

"Yes." Ginny replied candidly.

"And later, when you and dad and everyone went to the ministry to fight the death eaters?"

"Yes, I was. And the year after when they came to the school. And the year after that, when...when it all ended. When I think about it now, it still scares me." She was trying to teach him that it was OK to be afraid; James seemed to miss the lesson, and surprised Ginny by wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tightly.

"You don't have to be scared." He told her simply. "I'll protect you now."

And Ginny, who always had an answer for everything, found herself speechless. She lay a hand on her young son's head, and nodded, despite him being unable to see her.

"I know." She murmured.

He was always the one who didn't rely on her, or look to her to protect him. Instead, he was the one to ask if she was OK, to make sure she was safe. He was her child; but if need be, he would be her strength.


	41. Angel

Sorry for neglecting this, though I did warn you. Thanks to those of you who moved onto Rain and Ten Little Things with me.

This one's because I never saw George/Angelina coming, and wanted to try and work it out in my head. And on my computer screen. It's a little rushed - I've literally wrote it in ten minutes, spell-checked and proof-read, then posted. But I think it works. Oh, and I'm not encouraging smoking. I don't do it, and I don't understand why anyone would. But it's necassary here.

41. Angel

George Weasley x Angelina Johnson.

They were twins; they often said they were two halves of one person. Two sides of a coin, one might say. Two halves of a whole, yin and yang, and whatever else may be rashly linked together in a phrase.

They shared the same speech, the same thoughts and feelings. The same ambitions, the same likes and dislikes. Their personality was exactly the same.

It shouldn't have been any surprise, then, that as George Weasley looked across the room at Angelina Johnson, with an new, unfamliar interest in her, Fred was doing the exact same thing.

George was planning to ask her to the ball. Fred got there first.

No hard feelings; he'd won fair and square. Besides, George knew that in another few days, maybe a week or two, Angelina would be forgotton and he would have moved onto the next girl to catch his attention. Fred probably would too.

And he was right; barely days after he'd lost any feelings towards Angelina other than those of pure friendship, Fred lost interest in her too.

----

George stood by the fence at the Burrow, smoking a cigarette in solitude as he watched the stars. Inside the house was his twin's wake, and George couldn't bring himself to go back inside. A wake? No, no, that would make it all too final, too real, too serious. He didn't do serious.

He heard the back door open, and prepared to hide the fag from view - his mother would go mental if she caught him - until he recognised the figure. He relaxed, and took another drag.

"That stuff'll kill you, you know." Angelina told him lightly as she reached him. George shrugged.

"It's not, like, a proper habit or anything, Angel." He told her. He was the only person to ever call her Angel; even Fred hadn't shortened her name into the word. It was something she'd always liked about George.

"I had to have something to get me through today." He offered her an oddly twisted smile. She was a close friend of his, still, and she didn't like to see him like this. So broken.

"And the fire whiskey you were downing inside..." She prompted.

"OK, I need a couple of things to get me through today." He replied sharply. "Forgive me, Angel, but my twin brother _has _just -" He broke off suddenly, his eyes wide with horror at what he had almost said.

"Say it." She murmured. "It'll help, George, help you to accept it. Say - say the word."

"I don't want to accept it." He muttered. "I don't want to say it. I don't want to be in there and get all those pitying looks from _friends_ who pretend to understand how I feel. They don't understand anything!"

He tossed the cigarette onto the ground, crushed it beneath his foot. Someone would probably find it, but no one would care enough to ask about it. Grief was distracting.

"I know." Angelina replied simply. "No one can understand it."

He looked almost surprised, and she knew he'd been half hoping for an argument.

"Right." He muttered. He cast his gaze back towards the house, then closed his eyes. "I can't go back in there."

She reached across, took his hand. "You have to. And you have to accept that he's gone, George. He's really gone. He's not coming back."

He opened his eyes and looked into hers.

"Oh, god." He murmured, because it was then that it finally sank in, her words that finally drove it home.

He sank to the ground, sat with his back leaning against the fence; she lowered herself with him, sat opposite him.

"You...er, are you alright?" He asked finally. He would block every damn emotion that tried to creep up on him. He wouldn't feel.

She blinked. "Yes."

"Are you sure? I mean, you know, you and Fred..."

She looked momentarily confused, then half-smiled, the kind of smile tainted by sadness.

"Fred and I were together for less than two weeks, a lifetime ago. We had fun, but we weren't right for each other and we knew it. We were better off as friends." She shrugged. "I...I'll miss him. He was a good friend. A good person."

George nodded, and they lapsed into silence. Then he lifted his hands to his face, and moaned softly. "What am I going to do without him?" He asked, his words slightly slurred from emotion, as well as the fire whiskey he'd consumed.

"Well, first of all you're going to stop smoking. It's a disgusting habit. And you're not going to get lost in the bottle, either."

"Oh yeah?" He smirked, the expression fitting easily back onto his face. "And why not? What exactly is there to keep me out of _the_ _bottle_?"

"Me." She replied simply. "I'm going to help you. I've lost one friend, George. I'm not losing you too."

There were tears swimming in her eyes.

"You won't lose me." He murmured. They sat out there for half an hour before he forced himself back into the house.

-----

She became his rock, and he, although he was mostly unaware of it, became hers. She helped him re-open the shop, helped him talk through his good memories of Fred, rather than dwelling on that empty face he'd seen.

And somehow, the image of the dead Fred vanished from his mind, replaced with treasured memories she'd helped him recall. And somehow, he started to believe that he could make it as a "me" instead of a "we".

She helped him through the first anniversary of that day.

And then, a year and a half after he lost his brother, he realised that he loved her. Had done for a while.

----

On his wedding day, he pulled his new wife close. "Stuck with me now, aren't you, Angel?"

"Looks that way." She nodded.

"Good." He murmured. "It's all OK, as long as I don't lose you, Angel."

"Never." She promised.


	42. Lost and Broken

Because I decided there should be more to Charlie that just loving dragons too much to marry. This occurred to me, and I though it just fit.

42. Lost and Broken

He was the only one who never married. Five times, Charlie stood by and watched one of his siblings marry. Five times, he faced his mother's questions about his own love life, the likelihood of him getting married and producing a couple of grandkids for her.

Five times, he avoided those questions. Twice he laughed. Three times he felt the stabbing pain in his heart. If only she knew.

It had been shortly after Percy's wedding that he'd fallen in love himself. She'd been a friend of his for years before he'd realised how deep their feelings ran. He loved her, more than anything, anyone.

More, yes, than even dragons.

He mentioned her to his family, but was careful not to divulge just how much she mean to him, because he didn't want his mother to start the wedding plans.

And then she came to him, her eyes alight, and told him the best possible news. He'd always remember just how illuminated her face was, just how much his heart swelled, just how excited her words made him.

Because it wasn't the kind of news her wanted to give his parents in a letter, the plan was to visit the Burrow at Christmas, and then tell his family that they were having a baby. They would marry there; a small, simple ceremony, as she had no family of her own. They would return to Romania, build a perfect home, and raise their child, around dragons, naturally, for she loved them as much as he did.

They would live happily ever after.

Except happily-ever-afters only happen in fairy tales.

On the twenty-third of November, at exactly ten forty-one, pm, Charlie Weasley dropped to his knees, his legs unable to support him, every drop of oxygen leaving his body in shock.

The friend who had told him, who had spoke those awful words - they couldn't be true, they just couldn't - gripped Charlie's shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." The other man stammered, meaning every word, but knowing they meant nothing to Charlie.

Charlie's fiancée, three months pregnant, was dead. Killed in the crossfire of two wizards duelling. A senseless accident, one badly aimed curse, and his future was snatched away from him.

"It's not true." He stammered finally, his breathing uneven, laboured. "It's _not._ You're wrong. She's going to walk through the door any second now..." He looked towards the door as he said it, truly expecting her to walk through, even as he remembered she was over twenty minutes late. She was rarely late, and if she was she'd send him a patronus, just so he knew.

There had been no message, and somewhere in his mind he knew that meant she was gone.

Somewhere in his heart he felt that she had left him.

He sank lower to the floor, lay his head in his hands, and felt - actually felt - his heart break.

Some say the heart can't truly break. Charlie himself hadn't really believe it. And Charlie knew, if they had just broke up, gone their separate ways, his wouldn't have.

But she was dead. She and his unborn baby, dead. Gone forever, ripped from the world, from him.

And so his heart broke and he felt it.

He didn't go to the Burrow for Christmas. He managed to tell his mother, sobbing unashamedly as he wrote the letter, that his girlfriend was dead. He couldn't bring himself to tell anyone, though, how much he'd loved her, how they were planning to marry, how they were going to have a child...

About three months after her death, when anger had surrounded him, he went through her things, burned a lot of them, because, where he had previously needed them around him, he now couldn't face them. He burned most of their pictures, keeping only a handful. Her, looking startled at the flash of the camera, because he hadn't told her he was going to take it. The two of them, arms around each other and looking so _happy_ and together. Her again, smiling at the camera because he'd said something to make her laugh. Another couple of them together, one posing for the camera, one taken by his friend - the very same one who'd spoken those heart-breaking words - without them knowing.

And one - the only one he framed and displayed - of them together, smiling for the camera, truly, blissfully happy, with him behind her, his hands splayed on her stomach. It was taken only a month before her death, and he'd been trying to convince everyone he could feel the baby already.

The picture caused a stab of pain everytime he looked at it, because it was an undeniable reminder of their love, their happiness, and the future they were supposed to have.

So three more times, he watched a sibling marry. Three times, he faced his mother's questions.

He watched, one by one, his neices and nephews arrive, and he memorised their names, framed and displayed their photos, and fussed over them whenever he saw them.

And he wondered, over and over, what his own child would be like. A boy or a girl? She had been convinced it was a girl, and he decided she must have been right.

A daughter. A newborn. With her eyes or his?

She'd be a year old. Then she'd be two. Then three. Then four...

Each year, on the day his child should have been born, he'd light a candle and try to imagine his her.

He never told his family. Never spoke of the child, the wife, he should have had. Never spoke of his bone-deep pain. He couldn't speak her name, couldn't even think it. How could he begin to explain? And whenever any of them would hint that he ought to be marrying, be procreating, he'd force and smile and change the subject.

Because he'd loved, he'd lost, and he didn't have it in him to love again.

He'd lost his chance, and he was broken.


	43. Perfection

No idea what this is, what inspired it, what the point of it is, but I started typing and this is what appeared. Extremely short, but this is all there is too it. Nothing more needed.

43. Perfection

She was perfect. That's what her mother used to say.

Perfect, Andromeda used to call her.

Perfect Cissy, Bella would sneer.

Perfect. Lucius would say it softly, and she'd almost believe him in that instant.

Perfect. As a child, Draco would tell her she was perfect all the time.

But Narcissa knew she wasn't.

She tried to be perfect. The perfect daughter.

(Of course mother called her perfect. Andromeda married a muggle-born, and Bellatrix was insane.)

The perfect sister.

(Only, Andromeda left her, and Bellatrix didn't care about her.)

The perfect wife.

(But Lucius loved her, and love is often blind to flaws.)

The perfect mother.

(She loved Draco, spoiled him, of course he thought her perfect.)

She disliked her parents, and married young in order to get away from them.

(She wasn't the perfect daughter. She'd failed.)

She didn't try to talk Andromeda out of leaving. She didn't try to talk Bella out of killing their niece.

(She wasn't the perfect sister. She regrets.)

She let Lucius put their son at risk. She let him move Voldemort into their home, in his hopes for redemption.

(She wasn't the perfect wife. She was weak.)

Draco came very close to being murdered. Draco was forced into things.

(She wasn't the perfect mother. She didn't protect him.)

Perfect. The word taunts her, every time she hears it.

(She tried to be perfect. She tried.)


	44. Weddings and Wishes

44. Weddings and Wishes

"Lily?" Lily Evans froze at the sound, then slowly turned towards it.

"Petunia. Congratulations." She said, with a very forced smile.

For a long moment, Lily's sister was silent.

"Thanks." She managed finally, before turning on her heel and walking quickly away, her bright white wedding dress trailing behind her.

"Wouldn't have thought she'd want to get the dress dirty." James, his hand on Lily's back and his mouth close to her ear, said quietly.

"She'll clean it." Lily murmured. "She'll scrub every inch of it, several times with the most expensive cleaner she can find. Then she'll put it in one of those plastic covers, one she'll also have cleaned obsessively. Then she'll hang it in her wardrobe. And on her wedding anniversary every year, she'll clean it again."

"Really?"

"Yes. She's always been a clean freak. And she loves that guy. She'll want her dress to stay bright and clean."

James paused for a minute. "You know her well."

"She's my sister." Lily replied, sounding, he noticed, wistful. She leaned into him, sighed. "She still hates me."

"She doesn't hate you -"

"She probably only invited me 'cause mum made her."

"I'm sure that's not -"

"She wants me to leave."

"I bet she -"

"She probably wishes I was just dead."

He swung her around to face him at that. "No, she doesn't. You're her sister, remember?"

Lily nodded, too tired to argue.

"Let's just go home." She mumbled, and he nodded.

"You better say bye to your parents -"

Lily sighed, surveyed the room to locate said parents, and dragged him towards them with her.

"We don't have to invite her to our wedding." James said lightly, when they were safely back at his place. Lily raised her eyebrows.

"Our hypothetical wedding, James?" She said. "Or was that the worst proposal in the history of man?"

He offered her a grin. "It's your choice. If you want, it was hypothetical. Or...if you actually want to get married...it was the worst proposal in the history of man."

She blinked. She looked at him. She blinked again. And looked at him.

"Lily." He clicked his fingers, causing her to blink yet again.

"Well, if it's the only proposal I'll ever get, I suppose I'll take it." She said finally. His eyes widened.

"Really?" With a joyful sound, he pulled her to her feet and spun her around.

"Yes. Really. But - but James -"

"We have to invite your sister." He guessed.

"Yes. And James...if and when we have kids -"

"When we have kids, you mean." He corrected.

"Yes, that. We - we have to have a few, OK? More than one. 'Cause me and Petunia might not get along now, but -"

"You did when you were kids." He finished.

"Yes. Not an only child, James. Not ours."

"OK." He nodded. "We'll have a whole bunch of them. Six or seven at least."

She laughed. "That might be a few too many."

"You'll see." He smirked.

As it turned out, however, Lily Evan's didn't get her wish.


	45. The Only One

**Boo! I'm back. Been a little busy with Ten Little Things, and had no ideas for Jigsaw Pieces. Then along came this...**

**45. The Only One**

**Draco Malfoy x Astoria Greengrass**

The weirdest thing was that you'd never noticed her before. You'd attended a thousand of these parties, and she must have been at some of them. Only the best of the wizarding families were at parties like this, although, granted, the number of guests at your parents parties had decreased since your family's public disgrace. Many people didn't want to be associated with known Death Eaters, even if those Death Eaters had escaped prosecution.

However, you'd have expected to recognise her. You were well acquainted with the high status wizards and their offspring. But you were certain you'd never seen the sleeping women before.

She wasn't beautiful. She wasn't ugly either, but there was nothing about her that would make you sit up and stare. She was plain, ordinary, someone who could easily have faded into the background and gone unnoticed. If you hadn't stepped into the study, seeking a refuge from your parent's party, and found her sleeping on the antique sofa, you'd probably not have seen her at all.

Even as you watched her – and wondered if it was weird that you were just stood here watching her sleep – she stirred.

You took a nervous step back, unsure how she'd react if she found you staring her, as she opened her eyes, blinking as if surprised. You found yourself smiling at her confused expression, until she glanced up and saw you.

"Sorry." You muttered, half-sure she'd be mad, or scared. Who wants to wake up and see an ex-Death Eater standing over them?

"Malfoy." She said it sounding slightly embarrassed. "Uh – Draco Malfoy, right?"

You nod, surprised. Have you met? Surely you'd remember? As plain and ordinary as she looked, she had bright blue eyes that you couldn't look away from.

"Ah – yeah...have we...?"

"No. No, not properly." She told you, sitting up straight now, trying to look classy and dignified, as her parents were probably always telling her she should. "I've seen you around. Our parents are acquainted."

She was talking, now, in the careful, controlled way most children of their class had been taught to speak at such affairs. Polite, dignified, educated, as opposed to her earlier sleepy embarrassment. It amuses you somewhat.

"Well, it's nice to finally meet you, then." You wait a beat, then add, "Are you going to tell me your name?"

"Oh. Greengrass. Astoria."

You nod, vaguely aware of who her parents are. "Astoria." You repeat softly.

Maybe you're expected to marry a more beautiful girl. One from a family of higher status and wealth. One with an easy elegance, rather than her clearly forced one.

But as you look at her, in her eyes, you know that this is the one.


	46. Darkness

**Not really sure what this is, just another of those let's-start-typing-and-see-what-happens things. I like it, though, so let me know what you think of it.**

**46. Darkness**

The night wasn't black, but a dark, velvety blue, littered with dots of white.

_Was it ironic that the stars shone so bright on him, when his soul was so dark? _

Draco looked at the sky, trying to pick out constellations. Only, he couldn't see any. Didn't matter. Wasn't important.

He was sat on the wall, his legs dangling on the outside. Dangerous. His mother would be terrified that he'd fall. Fall from the astronomy tower and to his death.

_Wouldn't it be fitting for him to land, dead, in the same spot Dumbledore had? _

It was high from the ground. He'd never noticed that before. He'd been up here a million times or more, but he'd never noticed just how far the ground was. Maybe you couldn't, until you sat here, looking down. After all, wasn't his gaze usually trained on the sky, the stars?

_But now he was looking down, and wondering. _

His father was a mess. A nervous wreck, terrified for his life, and the lives of his wife and son. His mother had retreated into herself, quiet and cold. He knew she was scared. For him.

He knew it was selfish, to sit here contemplating death – or suicide, he supposed they'd call it – when his mother was so terrified that she'd lose him. But the castle was a mess, his parents were a mess, and his life was a mess, and at this point Draco felt that death would be a welcome alternative.

_If death is like sleep, then he could sleep forever. _

Maybe he should just develop a drink problem. How predictable would it be for him to lose himself in the bottle?

Alcoholism was far too ordinary for Draco Malfoy. He wasn't stupid enough to take drugs, the muggle poison. Honestly, the things those creatures come up with. Snorting powder up their noses, injecting poison into their veins, smoking junk that messed with their minds, or taking pills that could kill them. No wonder they didn't have magic. The idiots would probably crucio themselves for kicks.

_He was better, he was the best, he was superior. _

The world didn't deserve Draco Malfoy. The people occupying this dammed planet didn't deserve to share his air, to set eyes on him, to walk the same ground he did.

He should throw himself to the ground, lay as Dumbledore had, and erase his existence. He would end the guilt – it was his fault Dumbledore was dead, his fault the school was this way – end the fear – he hated being so damn terrified – end it all. Welcome oblivion.

_Close your eyes, spread your arms, and fall. _

He blew out a breath, causing his fringe to flutter then settle. Then he swung his legs back round, and stood on the cold stone floor. He wasn't going to jump. He knew he didn't have the guts for that. Death scared him as much as life, and he couldn't bring himself to fall into the darkness.

_Pretend, just pretend that you're everything you want to be, pretend your soul isn't dark and marred. _

_(It's amazing how easy it is to believe your own lie.) _


	47. Bittersweet

**Pathetically short, but I didn't want to over-do it. **

**47. Bittersweet **

"Look, Grandma! Look at my eyes!" Four-year-old Teddy Lupin cried joyfully, his eyes a vivid purple.

_"Look, mummy! Look at my hair!" Four year old Nymphadora Tonks cried happily, her hair a vivid pink. _

Andromeda fought back the memories, smiled at the expectant young boy. "Very nice. Now go brush your teeth, it's nearly bedtime. 

He rolled those purple orbs, shot her a bright smile, then ran from the room. About three seconds passed before the predictable loud crash.

"It's OK! Nothing's broken!" Teddy yelled, then continued running up the stairs, causing a wry smile to appear on his grandmother's face.

_A loud crash sounded, as nine-year-old Dora tripped over air and landed on the kitchen chair, causing it to clatter to the floor with her. _

_"It's OK, it's not broken." She said quickly, then offered a smile. Andromeda shook her head, smiling back, and helped her to her feet. _

"Grandma, instead of a story can you tell me about...about my parents?" Teddy asked hesitantly, as she tucked him in. Andromeda took the deep breath that this always required. 

"OK."

_"Mum, I need to know. Please." Dora, thirteen now, said firmly, looking at her mother with surprising maturity. "Tell me about your family." _

_Andromeda took a deep breath, and nodded. _

_"OK." _

By the time Teddy was ready to sleep, Andromeda had a lump in her throat the size of an orange. "Sleep, now, Ted." She murmured, and Teddy nodded tiredly, his eyes already closed.

"Love you, grandma." He mumbled, as she headed for the door.

"You too, Teddy."

_"Love you, mum." Dora said, her eyes fixed onto her mother's. "Remember that." _

_"You too, Dora." Andromeda whispered, watching her daughter leave, for the last time. _


	48. The Strangest Grave

**48. The Strangest Grave**

It was the strangest grave she'd ever seen.

The headstone was normal. Harry had paid for it, and she knew it was expensive. Black marble, that Fred would have approved of. She knew that Harry, originally, had considered white marble, but Ginny knew Fred would have hated that. White symbolised innocence and purity, and Fred would have hated people to think of him as pure and innocent.

The actual plot was crowded. Not with flowers. Fred wasn't a flowers person. No, instead balloons, in red and gold, were attached to the headstone. Petals, brightly coloured and various shapes and sizes, were scattered over the plot, littered between and over the other offerings. A fake wand – one of his own, Ginny thought, with a lump in her throat. A few more WWW products, as though he'd need them in death. A family portrait, taken a few years ago, that Fred and George had kept at their flat. A little model broomstick, that gently circled a tiny toy lion that appeared to be sleeping.

There were other things, but Ginny painfully noticed a small, brand new, pristine blue teddy bear she knew her mother had bought for the grave. Fred, she thought, would have rolled his eyes and said he wasn't a child, but really he'd have loved it.

When something else caught her gaze, she frowned. There was a thick book, with a dull cover and Latin title, lain on the plot. Obviously it was a recent addition – the petals that covered everything else were absent. Still frowning, she knelt down and picked it up, opening the cover curiously.

George's name was written inside the cover. For a moment it puzzled her, before she drew the conclusion that it was a private joke.

It broke her heart.

"Bet you like the grave, huh?" She muttered. "Wish I'd brought flowers now, just 'cause no one else has. I'd like to be different."

She sat back on her heels, looking at the headstone. It was beautiful, but the very fact that it was Fred's made her hate it. Perfectly carved, with gold writing. Fred's names and dates. _Beloved son, brother, twin, and friend. Eternally loved, never forgotten._

That was all. Her brother was reduced to a few words and numbers? That was all?

She closed her eyes to calm the burst of anger. What else would be written? They would hardly describe him, his hopes and dreams, his jokes and laughter, his life.

God. He was really gone.

"How could you?" She whispered, slowly opening her eyes, her vision blurring as tears gathered. "How could you do this to me? To George? To all of us? Damn it, I hate you!"

Her words were low, though filled with emotion. "You should have stayed, you should have lived, you should have fought it! I need you!"

She swallowed, forced back the tears. She didn't cry, remember?

She cast her gaze over the grave again, searching for composure. "George...George is doing OK. Considering. Some days, some days he'll be telling jokes constantly, like he wants to make us all laugh, cheer us all up. Some days – the bad days – he doesn't even smile. He – sometimes if he's relaxed, or really into a conversation, not really concentrating, I guess, he - he'll stop talking half way through a sentence, like he – like he's waiting for you to finish..."

She trailed off again as her voice rose in pitch, and breathed slowly to control herself.

"Mum, she's in pieces. Dad looks so lost. Ron's trying to help everyone, but he's hurting too. Harry's all guilty, Percy's...it's like he's trying to suck up to us all, but I know that's not what he's doing. Bill's trying to stay strong, and Charlie...I think he's wanting to go back to Romania and his dragons, but he doesn't want to leave mum and dad."

She paused again, picked up a petal and began rubbing it between her fingers. "I guess you don't really want to hear it all. Don't want to know that me and Harry are getting back together, or that Ron and Hermione are always making out. It's gross, really. You'd have found it gross. But I guess it's kinda sweet too. But you don't care, do you? You didn't care enough to stay alive..."

Tears threatened yet again, and she fought them back. She hadn't yet cried over this, over the war. Didn't plan to. What would it fix, after all?

"Probably should have visited earlier, huh? Sorry 'bout that. Been busy. Funerals. Way too many funerals. And trials. For the Death Eaters. Been testifying a little, because some are denying it and by law we have to give them a trial. It's stupid. We all know they're guilty, and there's no way they'll get off, 'cause half the aurors fought them. Umbridge, she's been locked up, for what she did to the muggle-borns."

She lapsed into silence, unsure what else to say. She closed her eyes again, because it was such a bright, sunny day, and it shouldn't be. The sky should be dark and clouded, the sun hiding in shame. The world should reflect her mood, because her pain was that bad.

She fought back the anger again, not wanting to start shouting in a cemetery. It seemed disrespectful somehow.

"I just, I can't deal with it." She murmured, opening her eyes. "I don't understand how you could do this, how you could leave us. I thought...I thought you'd always be there for me. And I know that's selfish, but I don't care. I'm being really selfish lately." She laughed bitterly.

"I keep thinking that, even though everyone's got their own stuff to deal with, that someone should spare me a minute, just to – I don't know, hug me and tell me everything's alright." Another bitter laugh. "I guess, really, I'm too old for all that. And I know it wouldn't really help anything. But...But when I was younger, that's how it worked. I guess it's not easy to accept that you're all grown up, huh?"

The sun was bright. She glared at it, until her eyes started to sting, because how dare the sun shine so bright when she felt so broken?

"And you know right now? Right now I'm not even wishing the war never happened, or wishing you back alive. Right now, I'm just wishing you could answer me, just tell me why. Why you didn't fight it, why you let yourself die. Why you thought we could manage. Why you left us."

She raised her knees, folded her arms over them, lay her head on her arms, and cried.

Because it might not fix anything, might not give her any answers, but what else was she supposed to do?

It was the strangest grave she'd ever seen.

Fred would have loved it.


	49. Let's Pretend

**49. Let's Pretend**

The small child stumbled as he ran; but it didn't matter, for strong hands caught him before he could hit the floor, righting him and smiling.

"Careful, Teddy-boy." His father's voice smiled. Teddy laughed in reply, then continued his running into the kitchen,where his mother's arms swept him up and held in tightly.

(The child stumbled as he ran. He landed in lightly on the floor, and struggled back to his feet, running into the kitchen, where Grandma asked him to please just walk.)

His eyes flipped open, he sat bolt upright, and looked around the room quickly. No monsters, like in his dreams.

"Mummy!" He called, because he knew his mum would check under the bed and in the wardrobe, and make absolutely sure. Dad came too, and they swiched on the light and thoroughly checked the room.

"All safe, Teddy." His mum said, hugging him. His dad tucked him back in, and they left together, smiling at him before turning off the light. He snuggled back down and closed his eyes, falling back asleep in minutes.

(His eyes flipped open, he sat bolt upright, and looked around the room quickly. No monsters, like in his dreams. He nervously lay back down, tightly hugging the soft purple wolf he'd had since he was a baby. It took a long while for him to fall back asleep, half-convinced monsters were going to slip out of the closet, or roll out from under the bed.)

"And then your mum and I moved a little closer, so we could help if we had to. But Harry had it all under control. And he..."

Teddy snuggled closer to his father, closing his eyes to try and picture the scene.

("And that's when your dad started teaching me how to cast a patronus. I couldn't do it at first, but then..." Teddy snuggled closer to his godfather, closing his eyes to try and picure his father.)

"Teddy. Don't you dare climb that tree!" His mum called, half smiling, half trying to look stern. "Teddy-"

"I'll be OK, mum!" He laughed, but before he could even begin to climb, his dad had lifted him off the ground, carried him back towards the others. Laughing, Teddy let his dad sit him in his mum's knee, where she started tickling him, while Harry and the Weasleys and everyone laughed.

("Teddy. Don't you dare climb that tree!" His grandmother called. Teddy hesitated, before stepping closer to the tree. "I'll be OK!" He called back, half annoyed at the way she always tried to smother him. Before he could begin to climb, though, Uncle Ron lifted him up, carrying him back over to the others and dropping him on Aunt Hermione's knee, who laughed. Teddy rolled his eyes, but settled back against her.)

"And try not to get into too much trouble straight away, Ted." His dad said. His mum rolled her eyes.

"Ignore him Teddy. You just have fun, OK?"

"Without too many detentions." Dad said, sending a smirk at mum, who half laughed before pulling Teddy into a hug.

"Just write as much as you can." She told him. "I want to hear every little detail."

"I will." Teddy nodded.

"And don't even think about staying there over Christmas. You're coming home, OK? We'll miss you." His dad told him, taking his turn in hugging.

"I'll come home." Teddy replied.

His mum smothed his bright blue hair, smiling as she did so.

("Try not to get in too much trouble, Teddy." Grandma said.

"Have fun, though." Harry told him, grinning.

"And don't forget to write." Ginny reminded him.

"We'll see you at Christmas." Grandma said, hugging him. Harry and Ginny hugged him too, then Grandma smoothed his hair, asked him again if he wouldn't prefer a more normal colour to the bright blue.)

Mum and dad hugged him when he got off the train for Christmas holidays.

(Grandma hugged him when he got off the train for Christmas holidays.)

Mum and dad took him to the platform to see him off, every time a term began.

(Sometimes Grandma took him; sometimes it was Harry or Ginny, or Ron or Hermione, or one of others.)

He awkwardly asked dad for advice when he realised he liked Victoire Weasley.

(He awkwardly Harry for advice when he realised he liked Victoire Weasley.)

His mum cried a little when he married; his dad beamed and looked tearful himself.

(His Grandma cried a little when he married; Ginny beamed and looked tearful herself.)

His mum hugged Victoire when she announced her pregnancy; his dad clapped him on the back.

(Grandma uncertainly hugged Victoire, asking if they were sure this was what they wanted.)

Teddy hugged his parents when his first child was born.

(Teddy hugged his first child when the baby was born, and fiercely promised never to leave.)

His parents were alive, and he'd always been happy.

(His parents were dead, and sometimes it hurt.)


	50. Team Colours

**Well I started wondering just how many of the next-gen would be on the Quidditch team, and then remembered there's only seven players...and somehow this happened. Oh, and fifty chapters now, and almost 550 reviews...I'm truly amazed, so big thanks to everyone who's r&r-ed, and especially those who've stuck with this from the beginning. Hopefully I'll start updating more frequently.**

**50. Team Colours**

"James, you know you can't have a team made up of your entire family."

"It's not my entire family, Wood. You're on it." James Potter replied to his friend, as they walked towards the Quidditch pitch.

"Uh-huh. And tell me, James, who else is on this team of ours?"

"My brother. My sister. Couple of cousins."

"Couple? Couple, James? Even ignoring the fact that your brother is our fellow chaser, and your sister is our seeker, you've got Hugo as Keeper, and Rose and Lucy as beaters!"

"That's only three cousins."

"There's only seven people on the team!" Anxiously, Wood ran a hand through his hair.

"Oh come on, Wood. My family have the best talent."

"The rest of the school won't let it go."

"They'll get over it once we win. Lighten up, will you? What do you want me to do, re-do the try-outs?" James replied. By now, they'd reached the changing rooms.

"You were obviously biased."

"No I wasn't. Not really. Besides, Lucy's been on the team nearly as long as I have. Al and Rose have been on since their third year, and Hugo and Lily were the best at try-outs."

"You barely watched the others! You'd already decided they were going to fill in the spaces, hadn't you?"

"So? They're still the best. I helped train the both of them myself. Now, get changed, OK? The rest'll be down here soon."

Wood complied; ten minutes later the entire team was on the pitch. James watched them all carefully, wondering if maybe Wood was right. Maybe his family loyalties would cost them the cup. Maybe...

"Got the snitch." His little sister yelled, waving it around. James blinked, then sent a smirk at Wood.

"Well done. Catch it that fast during the match and we're sorted." He told her. "Pass it here – I'll let it go again in a minute..."

By the end of practice, James was grinning.

"Told you." He said to Wood as they both landed. "Best team I've ever had."

"Yeah, well..." Wood muttered, causing James to grin wider.

--

By the first match of the season, Gryffindor house was extremely apprehensive, and a little disgruntled. A team made up almost entirely of one family?

"I tell you, we're gonna win." James said, the morning of the match. "This is the best team Hogwarts has ever seen. Tell them, Wood."

"Yeah...Uh...Great team..."

The people around them began to mutter, obviously not convinced by his doubtful assurance.

James narrowed his eyes, leaned forwards. "Wood, we've been friends for a lot of years now. I've always been good to you -"

"Yeah, great, like the time you talked me into skipping Transfiguration and got us both detention for a month. Or the time you convinced me that stray dog was a Grim only I could see -"

"That was funny." James smirked.

"Or the time you pushed me into the lake -"

"That was an accident! And I pulled you out."

"After laughing yourself stupid. And all times you forgot my birthday, when I've never once forgot yours -"

"Mines easy, its Halloween! Besides, I'd always remember after a week or so. Anyway, back to the point. I've always been good to you. All I'm asking for here is a little faith, OK?"

Wood snorted.

"OK, you leave me no choice." He leaned closer, lowered his voice. "If you don't start backing me up here, I'll start calling you by your first name."

"No – you wouldn't -"

"You know me well enough to know I will. I hate to blackmail you, but if that's what it takes..."

"Best team we've ever had!" Wood cried suddenly. "Really – no chance of losing – family or not, James made the right choice there -"

Satisfied, James sat back and helped himself to more toast. Really, Wood was over-sensitive about his first name.

--

Of course it would rain. They hadn't had a single chance to practice in the rain – but here they were, the first match, drenched.

Not that it was stopping them scoring. And while James couldn't help but worry that the weather may cost them, he was still pretty confident in his team's ability. After all, he'd been playing Quidditch with the family since he got his first toy broomstick. Those who weren't knew to the team were well rehearsed, were used to the tactics and the style. Lily and Hugo were quick learners, good players.

They were thirty points up. Could do with a bigger lead, James thought, looking through the players for the Quaffle, then speeding towards it. He spotted his sister, realised this was the eighth time he'd checked on her so far, and told himself he'd have to stop, soon, because otherwise he'd be too distracted to play well. She was a good flier, he reminded himself. A good player.

But if she fell, he may just have to remove his entire family from the team, otherwise he'd spend every match worrying. And removing them from the team would –

"And it looks like – YES! Lily Potter has the snitch – Gryffindor have the Snitch, Gryffindor win -" The comentator's voice yelled over the screams and cheers of the crowd.

He spun his broom round, saw his little sister waving her arm around, her face shining, as the team surrounded her. Laughing, flew towards her, too, and they landed in a tangle.

"See Wood?" James said happily. "Best match we've ever played. Best team we've ever had."

"Never doubted it." Wood replied, smirking as he turned away.

"Yeah, that's just the impression I got."


	51. The Hardest Part

**Well, something I started to get over writer's block...then got blocked on it, too. That was fun. Anyway, just finished it, even though I should be writing another 10 Little Things or Child Of War...I'm not usually bad at updating, but I'm struggling there right now. Anyway, will update them a.s.a.p.**

**Oh, and the last line is from the My Chemical Romance song, Sleep, and the title comes from that line.**

**51. The Hardest Part**

Free. He was free. They'd found Peter, they'd realised it was all a mistake.

"Harry," Albus Dumbledore smiled, "is waiting."

He'd grown so much. Two years old now. And Sirius swept him up, hugged him. The infant smiled and clapped.

He carried him outside, breathed the fresh air.

"It's so good to be free." He murmured. Beside him, Albus nodded.

"I'm sorry, Sirius, that I didn't believe you." The elder man said solemly.

"It's OK. It's fine." He said, though it wasn't, really. "I...Can I keep Harry? I am his..."

"Yes. He's yours, now. Lily and James...they wanted it to be you to raise him. If they couldn't."

"I know." Sirius said, saddened by the thought of them...their deaths. It still didn't seem real, and a part of him was half-planning to go to James, to tell him all about Azkaban, even while another part reminded him that James was dead. Screamed it.

"I'll look after him." He managed. "Remus..."

"Is desperate to see you, I believe. I'm to tell you can stay with him, until you get yourself sorted." Dumbledore said quietly.

God, he was so happy. The heavily, comforting weight of a toddler on his hip, the fresh air on his face, and the knowledge that he was finally a free man.

"We'll be OK, now, Harry." He murmured. "I can't bring them back, but you'll see. It'll be OK. Better than OK. I'll do my best by you, kiddo, just like I promised them."

He must have apparated to the mainland, travelled to Remus' but he wasn't aware of doing so. Natural, he supposed, for things to blur, until he got used to real life.

Then he was knocking on Remus' door. It was still the same, small and ramshackle, held together mostly by magic. He'd helped perform a few of the spells himself. It was some of his own magic that kept this place upright.

So Remus still couldn't afford a better place, then. Well, maybe they could be roomies. He ought to be able to find a job, right? And he and Remus had lived together before, for brief periods of time, after James had married Lily, when Remus hadn't been able to afford a place to live.

Well. One day at a time.

Remus opened the door, and there was shock, sorrow, and relief on his face, all at one. And he hugged him tightly, and Sirius hugged him back.

It was only when they'd released each other that Sirius wondered how they'd hugged, with Harry on his hip. And the first stirrings of panic came then, as he started to think...though his mind quickly rejected them.

"Come in. Inside." Remus said, and tugged him into the house. It never had been brilliant on the inside, though Remus had been eternally proud of it, of managing his own place.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you." Remus said soberly, but Sirius waved his apologies away.

"That's not important. It's the future that matters now. Harry." He set the boy on the sofa, and he looked around inquiringly, obviously fascinated to be in a new place.

"He looks so much like James." Sirius murmured. "Like we knew he would. Remember, when he was born?"

"Yes." Remus nodded. "I remember."

"And James was so happy, so _astonished _and me and you, we didn't know what to say to him."

"And we daren't go near Lily, because she'd screamed so loud we figured she'd want to curse someone."

"Yeah." Sirius laughed, despite the tears in his eyes.

He turned back to Harry, realised suddenly that the infant wasn't there.

"Remus – where -" But Remus was gone, too, and panic hit Sirius like a lightning bolt. "Harry! Remus!"

And then he heard screaming, loud, loud screaming, and spun around, unsure where it was coming from. Was it Harry – or Remus – was he going to lose them after getting them back -?

And then everything seemed to blur, to fade, and...and then Sirius realised what was happening, realised his earlier fearful thought had been right.

He was back in his cell, sprawled on the hard bed, with some other prisoner's screams ringing in his ears.

A dream. Maybe a part of him had known. A part of him had certainly realised at one point, though then suppressed the thought.

Such an amazing dream. Such a realistic one, if you ignored a few little things.

He let out a sound, somewhere between pain and anger, loud and echoing. The other prisoner had now silenced, and so the sound seemed even louder.

"Quiet!" Someone else yelled, his own voice thin and pain filled. "Just be quiet, all of you..."

He wanted to be out of here so bad. To be with his godson.

And yet, a part of him knew that it wasn't going to happen. That his dreams were never going to be reality.

He turned, curled up as he looked at the cold wall. And his eyes filled with tears.

_The hardest part, is letting go of your dreams._


	52. Letters and Love

**52. Letters and Love**

_Harry,_

_Things are getting worse here, by the day. Yesterday, Luna and I had to blow a hole in a wall to stop the Carrows torturing this first year. First year, Harry! The boy was so small, and shaking, and when Luna got him out of there – I stayed so the Carrows could yell at me and stuff while she got him away – he told her he thought he was going to die. How can they do that? How can they do that to innocent little kids? It's different for us, the six or seventh years. We can take it. But they're just kids._

_I wish you were, and Ron, and Hermione. I miss you all so much. And I'm terrified, Harry, that you're not going to make it back. You didn't even say goodbye, and what if I never get to? I'm not going to sit here and pretend that it's not a possibility, because it is. I'm not going to pretend I don't have nightmares of you all dying._

_So just hurry up, OK? Do what you have to do, then come home. Because I'm not sure how much longer we can manage here. This needs to end, and it needs to end soon._

_All my love, Ginny._

Ginny set her quill down, sighed. Because she couldn't even send the letter. Instead, she waited for the ink to dry, then folded it, tucked it into the bottom of her trunk. And twenty-five years, four months, six days, twelve hours and twenty three minutes later, Lily Luna Potter found it, read it, and smiled softly, even as she wondered just how her parents had managed.

--

_Hermione, _

_I'm so sorry. You have to believe that, have to believe I regret leaving you guys, have since I left. Have to believe I love you, and I don't even know why I walked away. I want to come back, and I know there's no way I can find you. Please, if you can forgive me, can you let me know where you are? I know it's not safe, but you can find a way, Hermione. I have complete faith in you. _

_Always,_

_Ron._

He sent the letter; the owl retuned a few days later, unable to find the addressee. And Ron sighed, crumpled the letter, and threw it into the pocket of his old, too small jeans. The ones Hermione had packed by accident.

Twenty-two years, one month, three weeks, two days, and seven hours later, Rose Weasley found the letter, read it, and shook her head, smiling.

--

_Ginny_

_I can't send this letter, so if you get it, then I'll be dead. I'm sorry I never got to say goodbye, and I'm sorry for hurting you. I want my money to be divided equally between you, your family, and Hermione, and the same with the rest of my possessions . But I want you to have the pouch around my neck, and everything in it. You'll look after them._

_I want your family to know how much they mean to me, and to thank them for everything. I want Ron and Hermione to know how important they are, how proud I am for everything they've done, and how I can never thank them for standing by me through all this._

_Most of all, I want you to know I love you, and I'm sorry I never got to say it, sorry I never made it back to you. _

_All my heart_

_Harry._

The tent was dark, and he'd written by wand light, quickly in case Hermione woke. She wouldn't like him being so morbid, but he couldn't face the thought of dying without doing this. He carefully folded the parchment, stored it safely away.

He never had to give it to anyone; but twenty-three years, eight months, three weeks, four hours and eleven minutes later, his sons found it, read it, and looked at each other, not knowing what to say.

--

_Ron_

_I know I might not make it alive, and so I have to make sure you know this. I forgive you. It doesn't matter that you left us, because I know you want to come back. I don't know how, but I do. You have to know how much you mean to me._

_You have to know I love you. That I've loved you for longer that I know, for longer than you know. That I'll never stop._

_Forever yours_

_Hermione_

This letter, too, never made it to its receiver. But after twenty six years, four months and two weeks exactly, Hugo Weasley found it. He read it, and found himself smiling.


	53. The Last Middle Name

**Well I've been thinking about this one for a while, but only just got round to it. I might do one about James's middle name, too, at some point, just to make it fair.**

**53. The Last Middle Name**

"Lily." Hermione cooed to the baby. "Lil-eee. Hel_lo_." Ginny smiled tiredly.

"You know, Ron and Harry would've taken Lily out as well as Rose and the boys." Hermione added to Ginny.

"I know. I just...Um..."

Hermione smiled. "Didn't want to be away from here?"

Ginny smiled guiltily. "Yeah. And, you know, Luna's coming over, so...She'll want to see her..."

"Any excuse."

Before either could speak again, the flames in the fireplace turned emerald; half a second later, Luna had stepped out.

The necessary greetings took place; then Hermione handed Lily over.

"Oh, Ginny, she's so beautiful." Luna said softly. For once, there was no strange remarks; she simply gazed at the baby. After a few seconds, she looked back up, and pulled a small, clear crystal from her pocket, and handed it to Ginny with a smile.

"Thanks, Luna, I'll put it in her room later." Ginny replied, setting the crystal on the side. Luna had given her one for each of the boys, to protect again something or other.

"I have something to tell you." Ginny added, and Luna looked back up. "About Lily."

"She's OK, isn't she?" Luna asked quickly.

"Yes, she's fine. It's just – Harry and I have decided on her middle name."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Ginny said carefully. "It's...It's Luna."

Luna opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"After you." Ginny added. "Lily Luna Potter."

Luna swallowed, and her voice didn't sound completely steady when she spoke.

"Thank you. I – Shouldn't it be Hermione, though?"

Ginny shook her head, reached over and put her hand over Luna's. "No. Me and Harry both agree – her middle name is Luna. Definitely."

Luna's eyes, Ginny realised, were full of tears. She drew back, smiled.

"Come on, Hermione, let's put the kettle on." They both rose, leaving Luna and the baby in the living room.

Once in the kitchen, Ginny turned to Hermione. "You don't mind, do you?" She asked. "That it's Lily Luna, not Lily Hermione?"

"No." Hermione smiled, lowering herself into a chair and resting a hand on her large pregnant stomach. "I really don't. Did you see how much that meant to her?" She shook her head. "I wouldn't take that away from her."

Ginny nodded. "We thought about you. Really. We went through a million middle names. But...well, I suggested Luna and..."

"Really, Ginny, I think it's a great thing to do." Hermione said. "Besides, if you named her after me, Ron would want one named after him, too."

Ginny laughed. "That's true."

"It was a really nice thing for you to do. It means a lot to her." Hermione smiled.

In the living room, Luna was gazing down at the baby, smiling serenely. This, just a middle name, meant more to her than she could ever explain.

Luna Lovegood had very few friends. But the ones she had were extremly important to her.


	54. The Name Game

**Well, I said I'd do one for James, and here it is, even though I really should be finishing a Ten Little Things...Anyway, once I started, I ended up writing about his whole name, not just the middle one.**

**53. The Name Game**

"You know, I really do think it's a boy." Ginny said, awkwardly sitting down. The current size of her stomach meant sitting down and standing up were rather difficult.

"Do you?" Harry asked, amused. This was something his wife had been insisting for weeks now.

"Yes. And mum agrees, too. Something about the shape of the bump. And she ought to know, after the amount of sons she ended up with." Ginny replied. "I just...feel it, you know?"

Harry nodded. "OK. I believe you."

And, he thought privately, if she turned out to be wrong and birthed a daughter, he wouldn't dare mention it.

"Good. I think...we should start talking about names. We've only got a few weeks to go." She said it carefully, looking at him in such a way that told him she knew what he was a thinking – what he'd been thinking for months.

"Ah...Yeah, sure. We should..."

"Harry, I know you have ideas. Or at least one." She said pointedly.

He paused, unsure exactly how to put his thoughts into words. "I'm just not sure about it." He told her finally. "Not sure if...If we should or not..."

"You...you want James, don't you?" She asked carefully.

"Yes." He said candidly. "It was the first thing I thought of. But – but...I don't want to use our baby as – as some kind of memorial."

"You won't be." She told him quietly. "You'll be giving him a name that matters to you. Someone important. And he'll know that. I...I think James would be a perfect name."

He nodded, feeling oddly choked up. Hormones, he thought automatically, before remembering that it was only his wife that this applied to.

"I figured that would be the name we'd go for. The first name, I mean. And if we were having a girl, it would be Lily, right?"

"Well...I thought...Hoped, I guess -" Harry stammered.

"Yes, I thought so." She nodded. "And it's perfect, Harry, after what your mother did for you. But we are having a boy." He smiled at that, the certainty in her voice.

"Right."

"Anyway, back to this. I've been thinking..." She was talking carefully again, as though uncertain of his reaction. Not knowing what she was going to say, Harry simply waited.

"I was, uh, thinking of middle names." She explained. "And...well, for me there was only one choice. One name that came to me. The only one I want -"

"Fred." He said. He had expected this, and rather agreed that it would be nice.

"What?" She said blankly. "Oh. Uh, no. I mean...George has already...Well, that's not the one I thought of. I actually – and I understand, Harry, if you don't want to – or – or can't – but...I want Sirius as a middle name."

He opened his mouth. He closed it again. And found he had no words to say.

Sirius? It was a wonderful gesture, of course. The perfect tribute. But...but could he – this was more real, more painful, than his father, or his mother, who had been killed before he was able to remember them. This was Sirius, who'd been so important – and whose death he still blamed himself for. Sirius, who he'd relied on, whose death had hit him so hard and left him feeling so alone...

"Sirius?" For a moment, he was unaware of speaking aloud.

"Yes. Harry...he was important to me, too. He was a friend, and a great person, and...and I really want to do this. But if you can't..."

"No." He said. "Of course I can. It's – it's a great name. And...he'd love it, I'm sure. Sirius it is."

"Are you absolutely sure, Harry?" She asked, looking pleased.

He nodded. "James Sirius Potter." He said firmly, smiling at the sound of it.

Ginny smiled, too. "That's our boy."


	55. The Scars of Survival

**Well, I basically wrote this just so I could use that last line...which seems kind of stupid now I think about it. Well, pointlessness it...uh, fun...**

**55. The Scars of Survival**

Ginny Weasley traced the thin, long mark down the left side of her face. She wasn't even sure how it had gotten there. At some point during that battle, the skin had been torn, but she couldn't remember when, how. She moved her gaze from the mirror to her arm. That scar, right there, on her right forearm, was from the night Dumbledore died. When a Death Eater's knife had caught her. The faint white mark above her eyebrow was from the year before, when she'd hit it on the corner of a table in the ministry, after diving to avoid a curse.

Scars, now, the lot of them. Ones she wouldn't remove even if she could. Why deny what had happened?

(Besides, even if the outer scars were removed, the ones inside would always remain.)

Hermione Granger pulled on her top, ignoring the scar across her chest. It was faint, but she knew it was there. Not that it bothered her. Why would she worry about one scar? This scar, from her fifth year, when she'd almost been killed at the department of mysteries, wasn't the only one she had. Strange, really, that she should scar, when the skin had not broke and her blood had not spilled.

She still had a faint white mark on her throat, where Bellatrix's knife had cut her skin. She had another faint mark on her right forearm, where her own curse had caught her in Godric's Hallow. She had a small, pink, perfect circle on her left shoulder where a curse had caught her in that last battle.

She saw Ron approach her in the mirror, and relaxed as he wrapped his arms around her. His arms still bore the marks from where brains had grabbed him, in the department of mysteries. He still, she knew, had a mark on the back of his shoulder from a curse in the final battle. And there was a clear mark on one arm, where he'd splinched himself after their ministry break-in.

(They both have scars. Some more obvious than others.)

Draco Malfoy stared at the mark. It was fainter. He was sure it was a little fainter. With any luck, the dark mark would disappear forever...Only he knew it would never completely go. Voldemort's sign would stay on his arm forever, as would the lines on his neck and upper arms from Voldemort's punishments. Even the faint marks across his face and chest, from Harry Potter's curse, were still evident.

(It doesn't matter which side they fight for. Wars leave scars on everyone.)

Harry Potter absently rubbed the lightening scar on his head, though it had not pained him at all. It didn't, anymore. Still, it was there, and always would be. The scars on the back of his hand were faint; but they, too, would never leave him. The bite mark from Voldemort's snake was still present on his arm; Nagini's legacy. And there was still an egg-shaped pink oval on his chest, where the locket had clung to him, forcing Hermione to remove skin along with it.

(Some consider them the signs of his bravery – he considers them the signs of other people's evil.)

George Weasley brushed at his hair with his hand, carefully avoiding the gap where his ear ought to be. It was a neat scar now, but it still felt strange not to have an ear there. That, of course, was the least of it.

He couldn't help but glance towards the room that had been Fred's. It felt wrong, living here, above their shop, without him. If he couldn't get used to not having an ear, how was he supposed to get used to not having a brother?

He took a deep, steadying breath, then descended the stairs to the shop.

(Their generation will never be completely whole. They lost too much. But they know they can survive. They know they already have.)


	56. Guilt

**Don't know where this came from. I know it's really short, but it practically wrote itself and that's where it ended.**

**56. Guilt**

"Remember, be very, very quiet." Harry said quietly to Lily, every year, as they walked into the hall. At one, she cried halfway through, and her mum took her outside. At two, she slept through it. At three, she wasn't well, and sat miserably on her father's knee, feeling too sick to make a sound. At four she didn't heed him, and chattered for most of the service. At five, she found it unfair, because as they entered everyone was talking, and even when the crowd quietened, the people at the front were talking. At six, she stayed quiet because James was silent, and she was going through a phase of doing what he did. At seven, she sat next to Teddy and tried to talk to him; when he said she had to be quiet, she did because she always did what Teddy said. At eight, she understood why they were here, and stayed quiet. At nine, she felt uncomfortable in the silence.

Now, at ten, she still feels uncomfortable. It's too quiet, and the quiet is filled with pain. Her grandma Molly, one of the strongest people she knows, is crying mutely. Her mother is staring ahead in silence, looking so sad Lily feels lost. Her father has the same look. Teddy looks a little sad, and respectful; her brothers' expressions hold little sorrow, but they, too, look respectful.

And Lily doesn't know how to feel. Is she supposed to feel sad? How can she grieve for people she never knew?

So she sits, silent, and tries to look respectful like her brothers. The memorial service seems somewhat pointless to her, but she feels guilty for feeling that way. They're remembering Teddy's parents, Uncle George's twin, her dad's parents, and lots of others who died in the war.

Everyone looks sad, even if it's only a little – even Hugo – but she just doesn't feel it. Is something wrong with her? Should she be weeping for the dead? And if she should be, if that is what she's meant to be doing here, then why isn't she?

She looks down at her knees, and tries to put a miserable look on her face; instead of sorrow all she feels is guilt. Sure, it's sad that all these people died, but it was long before her time, and she just can't find the right emotions.

So she spends the rest of the service with her head down.

On the way out, she looks at the memorial plaque – avoiding her own name, though, because it freaks her out a lot to see it – and tries to feel sad.

She feels awe. Respect. But not sorrow.

Later, she goes into James's room, where both her brothers are.

"At the memorial," she asks quietly, "what do you feel?"

Her brothers look at each other, then Al asks, "What do you feel?"

"Nothing." Lily whispers. Her brothers hug her; neither speaks, but the hug is enough – Lily knows they feel nothing, too.

_The dead are strangers to their generation; and it's difficult to mourn strangers._


	57. Flowers and Names

**Somewhat repetative, but, well, why not?**

**57. Flowers and Names**

"What about..." Hermione said, flicking through the baby names book. "Hazel?"

"Hazel?" Ron repeated. "Uh...No, I don't like it."

Hermione glanced at him, as though annoyed, then looked back down at the book. "OK...Lydia?"

"Hmm...Maybe...I don't know...I'm not sure I like it."

She sighed, obviously disgruntled. "_Fine._ What about Madison?"

"Madison? I _really_ don't like that." Ron replied. "Maybe we should think about boy names -"

"We? _We_? Tell me, Ron, what names have _you_ thought of, exactly? Because as far as I remember, all you've done is shoot down _my_ ideas!"

"I...I've been thinking." Ron replied defensively.

"Oh yeah? Well come on, then, let's hear it!"

"Well...I haven't actually thought of any -"

"Big surprise!"

"Look, don't have a go at me -"

"Why not?" Hermione yelled, and threw the baby book across the room. "You're not even trying - don't you even care – doesn't this matter to you?"

"Of course it matters -"

"Then act like it!" She yelled, and he stood up.

"I'm going to go out while you calm down." He snapped. "I'm sick of you always having a go at me."

And he stormed out.

--

Almost an hour later, she was calm, and wondering if she had overreacted. She probably had to apologise – and she hated apologising.

Ron let himself in, walked into the room nervously.

"Er...Hi...I'm sorry." He said, holding out a huge bouquet of roses.

She accepted them. "I'm sorry too." She replied, looking down at the roses.

He always bought her roses when they argued. She wasn't sure why, exactly – maybe they were the only flowers he knew, maybe he thought they were her favourite.

"And I...well, I was thinking. On the way home. I...I haven't thought of any boy names...but...well, for a girl – what about Rose?" He gestured to the flowers she held, somewhat self-conscious.

"Rose?" She repeated thoughtfully.

"Uh – just an idea – um, if you don't like it -"

"I love it." She replied, looking up. "It's perfect."


	58. Survival and Life

**58. Survival and Life**

_Autumn, 2004. The Burrow._

"Hey..." Neville, obviously ready to snap his eyes shut if he needed to, did a quick survey of the room to make sure its occupants were all dressed. In the absence of nakedness, he relaxed. "You lot nearly ready?"

"Yes." Hermione said. She looked at Ginny, seemed to read something in her eyes, her expression. "Luna – will you come and help me with something for a minute?" She asked, gripping the other woman's arm and steering her from the room.

Neville moved further into the room so they could get past him. "You look beautiful." He told Ginny, who offered him a shaky smile.

"I can't believe it." She said. "I'm actually here – actually about to get married. A few years ago, I thought I was going to die. That we all were. I never imagined I'd be standing here, like this..."

He smiled. "I knew you'd make it alive." He told her. "I thought I was going to die before it was over, but you – you're one of those people, Ginny, who refuse to let the world beat you. You'd have made sure you lived, just so you'd win."

She laughed, unnerved to find herself close to tears. "By the end of it, by that – that night, I wasn't sure I wanted to make it out alive. But you – Neville, I don't think I could have survived those months if you hadn't been there."

She crossed the room, hugged him tightly, not caring about creasing her dress, messing her hair, or smudging her make-up. She needed to make sure he knew how much she loved him, how grateful she was to him.

He'd seen her at her most vulnerable. Few could say they'd seen Ginny Weasley cry – and many were under the impression that she did not, ever, allow a single tear to fall. But Neville had not only seen her cry several times, he'd held her while she did so. He'd even, a few times, cried with her. He had seen raw terror in her eyes. He had allowed her to snap at him, when the strain became too much. He'd never once told her to get a grip, not even when she'd gone from laughing to crying within a minute. Not even when she'd gone from screaming angrily at him to looking like a small, scared child, whispering that she was sorry for being such a bitch.

He'd understood, and he'd got her through some of the worst moments of her life.

"I don't know how you put up with me." She murmured. "I made your life so much harder, but you – you were always so strong..."

He didn't know what to say to her. He felt he ought to remind her of the times he'd sat with her while tears slipped down his own face. Of the times they'd listened to Potterwatch, clasping hands and terrified of what they'd hear. Of the times he'd looked at her bleakly and asked if it was all worth it.

"No, I wasn't. We got each other through it, kept each other strong." He drew back. "I couldn't have managed any of it without you."

She shook her head. "Don't make me cry." She muttered, and he gave her a minute to steady herself. To force her emotions under control.

"Thank you." She said quietly. "For everything."

He offered her a smile, despite feeling rather emotional himself. "You too." He replied. "Now – I think you better get downstairs. If you're late, Harry might just have a panic attack."

She laughed a little, then nodded. Together, they left the room. At the bottom of the stairs, Hermione and Luna waited, in their deep red bridesmaids robes.

"I'll see you outside." Neville murmured, slipping past her, smiling at Arthur Weasley, where he waited to walk his daughter down the aisle.

"Are you ready?" Hermione asked, and Ginny nodded, smoothing down the dress. She took a deep breath, and walked towards the back door. And, taking her father's arm, she stepped outside, into the mild sunlight, over crisp red and gold leaves, to where Harry waited.

She wasn't just going to survive. For so long she'd just been determined to survive. Now she was going to concentrate on living.


	59. Growing Up

**Spent two hours earlier on watching The Black Parade Is Dead which has left me in a great mood. Any My Chemical Romance fans considering buying it, do not hesitate, it is amazing. I think I fell in love with them all over again. Now if only I could see them actually live...**

**Anyway, back to this. I starting writing this a while ago, but only just found the time to finish it. Therefore it doesn't reflect my current mood. I'm not really sure what the point of it is, other than it was in my head.**

**59. Growing Up**

She was awake. He didn't bother telling her not to wait up anymore – they both knew she wouldn't sleep until he was back in the house.

Just like he would wait up whenever she left. Though she had noticed the order didn't seem to send her on as many "missions" as they did James.

_Sexist_, she thought, only half annoyed. _Just because I happen to be a girl..._

But she couldn't work herself up enough to be mad.

Not when James was still out there, twenty minutes later than he said he'd be. It was dark, silent, and all too easy for her to imagine Sirius, Remus, Peter, or someone else from the order to turn up on the doorstep, telling her James was...

She might have burst into tears at the thought. Or rather, the implied thought, because she just couldn't think the word, not in connection to him. A few months ago, she probably would have. But by now it she was far too used to the fear, and hadn't cried in a while.

Maybe she'd cried herself dry. It would, pathetically enough, make a lot of sense.

Why she got into bed she didn't know. Maybe because he'd always roll his eyes when he found her in the living room, saying that he was fine and she shouldn't keep herself up worrying. She'd taken to lying awake in their bed, waiting and worrying there, instead. At least they could both pretend she'd tried to sleep.

Finally, a noise broke the silence, a quiet pop. And she sat up, facing the bedroom door. James's key in the lock. The door opening a closing quietly, and him relocking it. She heard him mutter a few protective spells, and heard a muffled thud; his cloak dropping to the floor. He never hung it up.

She heard him kick his shoes off, then make his way up the stairs. He opened the bedroom door, offered her a half-smile.

"I'm home."

"So I see." She replied, forcing a smile and keeping her voice calm. "How'd it go?"

"Fine, it was fine. Caught a couple of death eaters." He crossed to the dresser, pulled out the T-shirt he usually slept in. It was a muggle one, that she'd bought him years ago.

"Any one of us injured?" She asked, as casually as she might ask about the weather, despite the irregular rhythm of her heartbeat and the choking fear.

"No. Well...No, not really. Couple of jinxes and stuff – the usual." He shrugged, started changing as she laid back down.

"It's going to be alright, Lily." He said softly. "I promise -"

"Don't." She said, without sitting back up or looking at him. "Don't make promises you can't keep, James."

She was sick of everyone saying it was all going to be alright – nothing was alright, and no one could promise it would be.

"Lily -"

"This isn't school anymore, James. We can't just pretend we don't know what's happening out there, that we're safe and the grown-ups'll fix everything. We're the grown-ups now." She added quietly.

He slid into the bed beside her, pulled her against him so her back was against his chest.

"I'm sorry." He murmured. "I know I can't promise it'll be OK. But I promise I'll do everything I can to get us though this alive."

Us. He said it so easily, so naturally, as if they were one person. He wouldn't she knew, let himself think about what would happen if she were killed.

Though she knew he'd made some arrangements in the event of his own death. Though she knew he was prepared to die. It couldn't be healthy for him to love her enough to be perfectly happy to face his own end, when her death would destroy him. It couldn't be healthy for her to have promised him, one drunken night, to die after him, so as to spare him the pain of her demise.

She felt, now, like crying. Like breaking down and sobbing while he held her and murmured words of comfort, like he had done when they'd first joined the order.

But sobbing wouldn't make her feel any better, so it seemed like such a waste of energy.

"You have to believe we'll be OK, Lily." He whispered. She shook her head.

"I can't. James – James we're having a baby."

She hadn't meant to tell him like this. Not when her emotions were tangled and he was exhausted from the battle. Not when she was staring at a wall instead of looking at him. Not when she'd said it in terror and anger and sorrow, rather than happiness. But she'd known it for two whole days now, and she couldn't keep it inside any longer.

He was silent. She waited, and waited, and finally, because she had to see his face, she rolled over to face him.

He was staring at her, a huge smile on his face.

"That's – that's amazing – it's fantastic – oh, wow, I can't believe it – it's incredible, Lily -"

"No, it isn't." She murmured, shaking her head. "It's all wrong, James. The timing – it's not _safe_ to have a child. We...What are we going to do?"

"Going to do?" He repeated. "Lily – this isn't a _bad_ thing -"

"How are we supposed to protect a baby? We're barely protecting ourselves – a _baby..._If we had a kid, and then he or she was killed...it would destroy us, James. Both of us. How could we survive something like that?"

He looked at her, for a long time. "We couldn't. But all we can do is try our best to stop that from happening. There's no changing it now – we're going to have a kid. And somehow we'll get that baby through this alive. OK? I promise you that."

"You can't promise -"

"I can. I'll make sure I keep that one." He told her seriously.

She didn't want to argue, not now. And she wanted, more than anything else, to just believe him.

She laid back down, closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

And never saw the raw, hopeless fear in her husband's eyes.

_Put simply, growing up sucks._


	60. The Only Way

**60. The Only Way**

It had been a confusing few months. His emotions had been turmoil – pure, unadulterated joy, mixed in with guilt, tangled with a fresh wave of grief. The guilt was because he still, despite all his family's assurance, felt it was wrong for him to be happy when his twin was dead. And the grief was because Fred wasn't here to share this with him – even in the few years since his brother's death, he hadn't gotten used to that, to not having someone who understood him completely, whose thoughts mirrored his own. When Angelina had first told him – and that undainted delight had formed – his first thought had been that he had to tell Fred.

Stupid, he supposed, to still forget. After all these years, he should know it at all times, rather than forgetting it when his mind wasn't fully engaged.

At least he'd stopped pausing mid-sentence, waiting for someone to finish it. And the grief had faded, until he was able to live, to feel content.

Until the pregnancy. It wasn't there all the time, but at odd moments – when she first told him, when his mother had handed him mint-green, baby-sized jumper, telling him tearfully that the colour was neutral and she was so happy. He, of course, made a joke of it. But the grief was there, in the back of his mind, because Fred would have laughed and joked, too. There was the time when they bought a cot, and Angelina insisted he had to put it up by hand, to really experience it.

He and Ron had spent a whole afternoon trying to put it together, going from growling in frustration to laughing at their lack of progress.

In the end, they'd put it together with magic, and lied to his wife. It wasn't like she'd ever find out.

There had been countless moments, and now...now he wished more than ever that Fred was here, with him.

The baby didn't possess the Weasley looks, at first glance. A shock of dark hair graced the head, and the skin was golden, rather than pale. But he was sure he could see freckles, and the brown eyes could be the same as his mother's.

"He looks like you." Angelina said softly.

"You think so?" He asked. He didn't see it, himself.

"One of those books said there's a theory that babies look like their fathers so they won't be rejected by them." She told him. He only half listened, long-since bored of his wife quoting her collection of baby books.

He couldn't see any resemblance. His own eyes, after all, were blue. And even while he scanned the baby's face, he was grateful for that, because a child who looked like him would look like Fred, and he didn't know if he could cope with that.

They hadn't discussed baby names. He'd thought, once or twice, that they should probably talk about it, but had been too scared to bring it up – scared that he'd jinx it, that something would go wrong. They hadn't known if they having a boy or a girl, and so he'd figured they'd pick a name when the child arrived.

Now their son was here.

The baby yawned, and his eyes fluttered closed. George stared at him in wonder. He never wanted to let him go. He wanted to keep hold of the tiny, warm body forever, feel the weight of him against his arms and know that his son was safe.

"Is he asleep?" Angelina asked, looking up from the bed. George nodded, without taking his eyes from the angelic face.

"He looks so innocent." George told her softly, and she smiled.

"I bet you did, too, at that age. If he's anything like you..." He smiled, too.

"Here, let's put him down." Angelina said, and reluctantly he passed the baby down to her. She set him carefully in the plastic cot beside her bed, and spent a few seconds looking at him. "Night night, Fred." She whispered.

He didn't jolt in surprise, his heart didn't skip a beat increase its rate. His breath didn't catch and his eyes didn't widen.

It wasn't a shock, it wasn't painful. It was as if he'd known all along that Fred was his son's name. As if there was no other choice in the matter, no other possibility.

Angelina looked at him, almost as though waiting for him to tell her no, that they couldn't – that he couldn't.

Instead, he smiled, and looked back other at his son, who stirred, and opened his eyes.

"That didn't last long." George said, and then, because he had to, had to say it, added, "Fred's awake."


	61. Portrait Hate

**Just a random little idea. Appologies for anyone offended by the swear. Oh, and thanks for reviews.**

**61. Portrait Hate**

He hesitated. He would never have admitted it, not to anyone, but he was scared.

He was alone. He'd made sure of it. Dumbledore was going to come here in a few hours, meet him. To check out the place, see if it was suitable. But for now, Sirius was alone in the house he'd grown up in, the one he'd sworn never to return to. He'd walked quietly through the rooms, holding his breath, as though expecting someone to jump out, tell him to leave, that he didn't belong here. This, actually, had happened in the kitchen when Kreacher had seen him, and leapt to his feet, shrieking. But the rest of the rooms had been undisturbed. He'd stowed Buckbeak in his mother's bedroom – a petty gesture of disrespect, but he couldn't resist. He'd done his best to clear the dust and bugs from his old bedroom. And now, he stood in front of a curtain in the hallway.

He'd known she would have done something like this. And the way Kreacher had ran into the hall, straight for this had told him she'd put it here. He'd grabbed the elf, locked him in the kitchen. Because he'd wanted to see the rest of the house before he faced her.

He took a deep breath, reminded himself he was Gryffindor, and gripped one of the curtains. Slowly, he reached for the other one. And, after another hesitation, where he swallowed the urge to run, to get Buckbeak and run away, he pulled the curtains behind.

She was sleeping. It wasn't a flattering portrait, he noticed. She wouldn't have wanted it to be. This wasn't to illustrate beauty – this had been made for him, put here for him. She'd known as her last days approached, that the house would automatically go to him. So she'd created this, stuck it on the wall, so that when he'd return he'd be faced with an image of neglect and insanity. It was supposed to make him feel guilty for running out. To make him feel that he'd betrayed her, neglected her, left to her to die old, alone, and half-crazy.

It didn't. He felt nothing when he looked at her.

Then the image stirred. Her head shifted; her eyes opened. And then they bulged, shock all over the painted face.

"You!"

"Hello, mother." He said it quietly, his voice steady. "It's been a long time."

"You dare enter this house? You dare look upon me – speak to me?" She hissed it, glaring at him.

"The house is mine, now." He shrugged. "You could have changed that. Gave it to dear Cissy, or let it sit here in cousin Bella's name. You didn't. You made sure tradition would hold and it would come to me. To taunt me, mother? Was that the reason? So that I'd be reminded of you, of where I came from, and how much you hated me?"

"To remind you of what you'd lost." She snarled. "Of the name you'd besmirched, the family you betrayed."

He laughed, a bitter, humourless noise. "You're going to love what I do with the place, then." His eyes hardened, and for the briefest moment an expression of hate passed over his face. "You betrayed me, mother. I thought you'd love me no matter what – you were supposed to love me no matter what. Instead, you..."

He trailed off. He didn't want her to know how much it had hurt.

"You shouldn't have been mine." She said it quietly, and there was hate in her voice that cut through him like a blade. "You didn't belong with me. You should have been born to muggles or half-bloods or traitors."

"For once we agree."

"You had no pride. No values. You're unworthy of your breeding."

He barked out a laugh.

"You told me that at the age of twelve. Remember? You've no idea how much that hurt at the time. Unworthy of you, of father, of this family, you said. I didn't deserve my surname, and I was unworthy of my breeding."

"As you were – as you are!"

"I was a fucking child, mother, not a dog!" He yelled it. He hadn't wanted to shout, or swear; hadn't wanted to let her get to him. He expected her to look smug, pleased she'd gotten a rise out of him. Instead, her eyes narrowed.

"You still have no respect for me, I see."

"And you still have no love for me." He replied evenly. "Your own son, your firstborn. Did you ever love me, mother?"

He regretted asking immediately. He didn't want her – nor anyone else – to know that it bothered him. That the question had tormented him since he'd left home.

"I did." She said, her voice cold. "When you were young, I loved you."

"Just not unconditionally." He said bitterly. She didn't reply to that; he wasn't surprised. He looked at her, for a long moment, then nodded. "I'm not leaving. I want to, more than I did at sixteen. But I'm staying, I'm using the house." He knew she'd hate it, and that she'd make sure everyone knew about it. "I hate you. More than I ever thought possible." He told her flatly. "Go back to sleep, mother."

"You are no son of mine!" She spat. He nodded.

"Works for me. Go back to sleep...Mrs Black." He pulled the curtains closed, and walked up the stairs, forcing himself not to feel.


	62. Goodbye, Brother

**For Dodger Gilmore, who suggested I do this after Dean's Ten Little Things. The title's weird, but it's all I could think off.**

**My Ten Little Things readers, sorry I haven't updated in a while, and it's going to be a couple more days. I've barely started the new one, but I've been really busy over the last few days (spent yesterday at party in the park, Go:Audio were amazing, and Mcfly were awesome too, worth the sunburn I've ended up with, and all the waiting in the heat) and I had to write this, because it wouldn't leave me alone.**

**62. Goodbye, Brother**

His heart is beating too fast to be normal, too fast to be healthy. He vaguely thinks that if it doesn't slow down, it might just fail and he'll die. But still, he thinks bitterly, he'll only by dying sooner that he'd expected. Because now, he either has to go to the ministry of magic and be asked about his bloodlines – and he's sure there can be no good outcome from such a trial – or he can wait for ministry people, or Death Eaters, to come to his home and kill him.

And then it hits him. He doesn't live alone. His parents, his siblings – what if they were all killed, because of him?

And suddenly, he knows what he needed to do.

He writes a note. He can't bear to tell them in person, to see the fear and horror in their eyes, on their faces. Doesn't want them to see his own emotions, either. He tries to play it down as much as possible on the paper, tries to keep it brief. He doesn't quite manage it though – he takes up both sides of three pages of notepaper, and when he reads it through after he knows his parents are going to be terrified. He hates himself a little bit for doing this to them.

But at the same time, he's relieved that they finally know – it was hard to keep all his fears a secret. His parents had always been the people he'd go to when he had a problem, or a worry.

He isn't ashamed by the fact that all he wants, right now, is to be hugged by his mother, to have his step-father tell him it's all going to be OK, that he'd sort it out. He doesn't care that he's too old to believe his parents could fix anything.

By the time it's dark, Dean has packed everything he'll need. All into one back, magically altered to hold more than it ought to. And he has a plan all worked out. Well, sort off.

He leaves the note on the kitchen table, deciding the cliché wouldn't be a cliché if it wasn't effective. It would be easily found there. And then he slips outside, posting his key back through the letterbox. That way, he thinks wryly, if he ends up dead, no one will be able to steal his key and unlock the door. Not, of course, that a lock would actually stop a Death Eater.

It feels as though there's something in his throat, trying its best to choke him. Dean tries to swallow it, fails, and gives up. He can ignore it, after all. It's not like there's anything possible lodged in his oesophagus. And he refuses to admit that its emotion causing the sensation. Therefore, there's nothing there at all.

It doesn't take long to get to Seamus's, which makes him thankful he passed his apparition test. God knows how he'd have managed without it.

Seamus is awake, and doesn't look surprised. They've known each other for too long, Dean supposes, for Seamus not to know what he'd do. Or that he'd be here.

"I need your help." He whispers. Seamus nods, pulls on a jacket and tightens his grip on his wand. Neither of them bother with security questions; it doesn't occur to them. They go back, to Dean's house, stand just beyond the fence.

He whispers the spells, as much protective magic as he and Seamus can remember. Hopefully, the two of them can make it strong enough, Dean thinks nervously. Hopefully, it won't be tested, and his family will be left alone. He stares at the house, looking at the dark windows, the brick walls. He can't see it from here, but his name is written on the wall next to the front door. His mother was annoyed about that, he remembers, but he was seven and dreaming of being rich and famous, practising his autograph. He'd assured her that one day that little section of wall would be worth millions. She'd laughed at that, he remembered, though he'd still been grounded, and he'd still spent twenty minutes trying to scrub it off – unsuccessfully. Underneath the living room window there's a faint mark, from where he crashed his bike into the wall years ago.

The memories hit him, blurring into each other, causing such emotion that all he wants to do is run inside, curl up on the window seat in the living room – his favourite spot – and feel safe.

But he knows he can't. So he spends a few more minutes looking at the house – the window one of his sisters accidently smashed with a football, the flower bed he'd once accidentally killed a flower from, magically bringing it back to life when one of his sisters got upset over it. That was, he thinks, his first ever magic.

He suddenly feels tears prick his eyes. This is _home_ and he's leaving it – possibly forever. He hasn't even said a proper goodbye, and what if he never sees any of them again?

"Dean." Seamus says softly, and he half-heartedly blinks the tears away. Seamus won't say anything if he starts crying. They've grown as close as brothers over the years, and Dean knows Seamus understands. Still, pride had him hoping it wasn't obvious he was close to crying, as he turned to face Seamus.

"They'll be safe, Dean." Seamus assures him. They're both aware that, actually, no one is safe. They're both aware that Seamus is pretending to be sure they'll be OK, and Dean is pretending to believe it.

But sometimes it's easier to just pretend.

"Can you...in the holidays..." Dean mumbles, wondering how exactly to word the request.

"I'll check up on them as often as I can." Seamus assures him solemnly. Dean nods, feeling slightly better – because he trusts Seamus completely. "Where...where are you going to go?" Seamus asks.

In the light from the street lamps, his face looks pale, worried, and Dean wishes he had something to say to reassure him.

"I'll move around." He says. "I'll keep running." The latter is the best reassurance he has – it's his way of saying he won't get caught, won't let himself get caught.

"Be careful, Dean." Seamus says, and then, with the faintest break in his voice and raw emotion on his face, he adds, "God, stay alive."

"I will." Dean nods, doing his best to ignore the doubts – this could be the last time they see each other. "You too – stay safe, stay alive."

Barely half a second passes, and then they both step forward at the same time, hug each other tightly. They were never really the type to hug, but now Dean wishes they'd done so more often. That he'd found the words to say how much his best friend means to him. It feels like it's too late, now, to find the words.

And so they cling to each other, in a proper hug, not an awkward one-armed-pretend-hug, but a real one. Like brothers. Finally, Dean pulls back, knowing that he needs to leave now before he loses his nerve.

"I – I'll see you, then. As soon as I can..."

"If you can, you know, get in touch, without..."

"I'll try." The lump in his throat is bigger, more painful. "Bye." He whispers.

"Bye."

And Dean turns, walks a few feet away and apparates. All he feels is guilt – this feels far too much like he's abandoning everyone he loves.

(Seamus turns back to the house, where Dean's family sleep, blissfully unaware. As an only child, he'd always loved the noise and chaos that was Dean's huge family. And wished for siblings himself, more times that he could count. But now he finds himself glad that the only family he has are his parents – it's going to be hard enough worrying about them, and Dean's family, without having to fret about siblings himself.)

* * *

Dean walks through the door, allows himself half a second to be impressed by the room of requirement, then searches the crowd for Seamus.

As his best friend – his brother, in every way except blood – roars and runs towards him, Dean feels the grin split his face. He doesn't care who sees, what they think, as he hugs Seamus. He's embarrassingly close to sobbing, actually, the situation is so overwhelming.

"Your family – they're OK – my mum's been making sure while I'm here, too, and I've been they're in the holidays – they all miss you so much, but they're alive, Dean, they haven't even been attacked -" Seamus tells him, very fast.

Dean has to grin – not just out of relief, but because Seamus _knows_ this is the thing he needs to hear first.

"Thank you." Dean says; and nothing else is needed.


	63. Stupidity

**This one just came out of no where. It just started writing itself in my head. Which is probably a little weird, actually. It might make it's way into a proper story someday. Ignore the title, I couldn't think of anything else.**

**Oh, and btw, Lily's in her sixth year, and Scorpius has left Hogwarts.**

**63. Stupidity**

**Lily Potter II x Scorpius Malfoy**

She had always been a temperamental person. Lily Potter had inherited both her parents' tempers, which made arguing with her something only idiots did.

Scorpius Malfoy, it seemed, was an idiot.

She had stormed outside, but the sun was shining and the air was warm to the point of discomfort. It was the kind of weather she disliked at the best of times, but in this mood, the sun was bitterly hated. So she'd gone straight into the Three Broomsticks, and found a table in the corner.

She should have stayed at the castle. She should have locked herself away in the library and done her homework. She should not have come into Hogsmeade to meet that jerk.

"Lily." She looked up slowly, careful to fix her best glare on her face. He was stood before her looking sheepish, offering her a small smile.

Because she knew that if she stayed there she'd forgive him (she was already thinking she'd probably overreacted, and maybe she should listen to his apology) she stood up, and, without a word, made her way through the crowd.

"Lily!" He sounded annoyed, and she couldn't blame him. It was, she knew, rather petty to storm about like a child. But it made her feel better. Out in the sunlight, she decided to return to Hogwarts. He couldn't follow her there, and she could study. Which wasn't exactly fun, but at least it would take her mind of the fact she just broke up with her boyfriend.

Well, she supposed she hadn't exactly broke up with him. They'd argued, she'd yelled, he'd yelled, she'd yelled louder, and then she'd stormed off. There was no mention of a break up in there. But it had been implied, she thought bitterly. She'd implied that they should just give up on this long-distance, write-lots-of-letters-but-hardly-ever-see-each-other relationship, and he hadn't said anything.

If that wasn't a break up, she didn't know what it was.

She jumped violently when he grabbed her arm. Lost in her own angry thoughts she hadn't even realised he'd ran after her.

"Will you just let me talk?" He snapped.

"Let go of me, Malfoy." She said coldly. It was a low shot, she knew. He hated being called by his surname – in his early years at Hogwarts, he'd suffered much bullying, and he'd always been "Malfoy". She sort of regretted it when she saw the flash of hurt in his eyes, but the temper hadn't cooled enough for her to apologise.

"Just listen to me a minute." He said, his own voice cold. God, she hated that. He was talented at being cold, but he'd never used that tone on her before. And his eyes, that unique blue-grey colour, had never looked so cold.

"There's nothing more to say."

"There is."

"No. You told me all you needed to." She replied, matching her own tone to his. Lily Potter's temper might usually boil over, but she could be icy, too.

"You didn't even listen! You just jumped to conclusions and yelled and stormed away. Can you act like an adult for five minutes and hear me out?"

She stayed silent. He paused for a moment, as though waiting for her to say something, then sighed and let go of her arm.

"You're such a child sometimes. OK, listen. I know I said that I hated having to travel down here. I know I said this whole arrangement was annoying. I know I said it wasn't working for me."

"You know, you're not helping any. This is just making me even more mad."

"Be quiet. Now what was it you said -?"

"I said that I'm sorry I'm not worth the distance, I'm sorry if spending a couple of hours with me, your girlfriend, once in a while annoys you, and that I'm really glad that after over a year together you've decided that this doesn't work for you after all. And I believe there was something about -"

"Yeah, OK, we don't need to relive the argument." He interrupted. "Look, I just hate that we don't get to see each other very often."

"You knew that it'd be this way. We talked about it last year when you left Hogwarts, remember? I said that I'd understand if you wanted to break things off. And you, _you_ assured me that we'd manage it, and it wouldn't even really change things."

"At the time, I meant it. But things change, and I -"

"Want to end it, I know." She snapped. The anger had faded, now, enough for the hurt to seep through. "I got that. It's fine, whatever." She turned away, started to walk again, praying that he wouldn't follow her. She felt, suddenly, emotionally drained, and didn't think she could manage to yell at him anymore.

"You're impossible, you know that!" He called after her.

"I try." She replied loudly, without stopping or turning back.

"I don't want to end it, Lily!" He yelled. She ignored him, carried on walking. "I love you, you moron!" He cried.

She froze. She couldn't manage to turn around, or speak. Instead, she stood completely still, staring forwards and wondering if she could've possibly heard that right.

"Don't ask me why, because I really have no idea. But I do. I love everything about you."

She turned, slowly. They was a few feet between them, but she couldn't manage to raise her voice. "Everything?"

He heard her, or lip-read. He nodded. "Even the stupid things that drive me crazy. Like the way you never admit when you're wrong, or the fact you own like a thousand jackets and still steal mine whenever we're outside."

"I get cold." She murmured. He didn't seem to hear her.

"Or that you always find something to complain about. The way you're impossible to argue fairly with because you never listen to anyone else's opinion. All of it, every last stupid, annoying trait." He still sounded angry, but she didn't care.

"Really?"

She couldn't seem to think straight. People had said they loved her before. Her family. Her friends. But never a boyfriend.

"Yes. And I hate that I hardly get to see you, and that I miss you like crazy and that I save all your letters, even the ones that are just a couple of lines long. D'you know what it does to a guy's ego to save letters from a girl?"

She smiled, but couldn't seem to catch the breath to laugh.

"And I can't _wait_ to hear what my dad'll say about this. Or my grandfather. Especially my grandfather. And yours. Won't that be wonderfully awkward?"

She finally managed to laugh. She felt dizzy, and giddy. Felt like laughing or dancing or screaming or something.

"Well." She said lightly. "At least your mother likes me."


	64. Death And Changes

**I know this whole senario is unlikely, but it just had to be written.**

**Just so you all know, I'm going on holiday on Saturday, for a week, so they'll be no updates or reviews or anything from me. I'll try to get another Ten Little Things before then, but no promises.**

**64. Death and Changes**

She's sprawled on the floor. She doesn't look graceful – from the little she's heard about her niece, Narcissa wouldn't have expected her to look graceful.

But she never expected to see her dead, either.

She's pale. Her skin doesn't look grey – but white, clean and pure. The hair, the bright pink, is limp, spread on the ground and over her face. She's laid on her back, her head slightly to one side, her right arm flung out, the other across her abdomen. Her legs are at awkward angles – the left one is twisted. It would be uncomfortable, if she were alive.

There is no doubt in Narcissa's mind that the girl before her is dead. Her chest is still, and so is her heart.

Narcissa never knew this girl. She heard about her; even saw her, once or twice, around. She longed, sometimes, to meet her. Other times she could effectively pretend not to have a niece.

But now, Narcissa looks at the body of the girl – little more than a child, really, she thinks – and regrets.

"It was her that killed you, wasn't it?" She murmurs gently, and kneels down. "She did it."

The eyes are open. They are her own grey, but empty, blank. And yet, Narcissa thinks that the grey eyes of young Nymphadora would have been bright, warm.

Her own are cold.

She lightly – almost scared – strokes a finger tip over the pale cheek. It is cool – the warmth of life has left the skin. Nymphadora has been dead for some time. Gently, gently she closes each of Nymphadora's eyes.

She had a baby. Narcissa remembers being told that her niece had had a child. A son. Teddy, after the father she lost.

"How could you, Bella?" Narcissa murmurs, suddenly unbearably sad. "How could you take a mother from an innocent child?"

_Take an innocent child from our sister._

She raises her head, looks at the castle, and fears for her son. She doesn't know if Draco is alive of not. Doesn't know if he's injured. And she wonders if Andromeda knows her daughter is dead.

Her heart, cold, breaks a little.

"I'm sorry, Andromeda." She whispers. It's been a horrible night. Narcissa wants her son, wants her husband. Emotions – and she'd thought she was so skilled at freezing her emotions – are strong and sharp.

She wants it all to be over.

She looks back down at her niece. Niece. The word seems strange, even in her mind. Unnatural – not allowed. Like a swear word on the lips of a small child.

"My niece." She says it softly, but with a note of defiance. She's sick of hating people without knowing why. Sick of having to say things, see things, do things, when she no longer believes in _the_ _cause_.

She strokes the pink hair, gently.

Nymphadora, she knows, is in her early twenties. But in death she looks about sixteen. Impossibly young.

_Dead._

Narcissa's hardly aware of her hands moving, of her body shifting, but she finds herself straightening Nymphadora's legs, her arms. And then, without even realising what she's doing, she finds herself cradling the girl in her arms.

Someone should. Someone needs to hold this poor, dead girl, one last time.

"I hope you know you were loved." Narcissa whispers, without really being aware that she's speaking. "I hope you appreciated it, while you could."

She uses magic to move the body. Carefully levitating her, moving her closer to the castle. Because Nymphadora was too far away from the castle, and Narcissa wants to body to be found quickly, to be moved to safety.

She lays her gently on the ground by the steps. She can't risk entering the castle now. But she's careful with her, lays her neatly. Gracefully. And brushes a hand over the pink hair – limp, dull, lifeless, now, though she imagines it would have been shiny and bouncy when Nymphadora was alive.

"Goodbye, Nymphadora." She whispers. Then she straightens, walks away.

The death of her neice, the sight of her, has changed something for Narcissa, changed something inside her.


	65. Comfort

**65. Comfort **

She wanted to cry. She hated herself for it, because she was, after all, the one with the least amount of things to cry for, but she couldn't help it. There was a slight burn in her throat, though her eyes were completely dry, still coated with dust from the ceiling collapse.

The one that had killed Fred.

A sob might have risen in her throat then, if she had less control. But Hermione Granger was determined not to cry, not to break, and she was stubborn enough to pull it off.

But she felt so lost. So uncertain, so miserable – and yet there was the jubilation, that he was finally gone, at war with the misery of death – so exhausted. All she wanted, right then, was to go home. To the house she hadn't been to in almost a year, to the parents she hadn't seen in the same amount of time.

She'd missed them. Terribly. Knowing that she might never see them again had made it all the much worse. A part of her – the part that she'd labelled as selfish – wanted to leave, now, to track down her parents and threw herself into their arms. It was over, now, Voldemort was dead, and a part of her screamed to just get out of her, find her parents, go home.

She'd bury herself in her old bed, and block out the world for days, until she felt able to cope with it all.

Instead, Hermione took a deep breath, and slipped her arm around Ron's waist. He didn't react – she wasn't sure he even felt her – but she didn't know what else to do. Should she speak to him, should she hug him?

She scanned the room, wondering if anyone knew what to do next. They'd headed back to the hall, and she spotted the Weasleys, Harry, and other friends in the crowd. Except Ginny, who'd disappeared. Maybe she'd go find her. It would give her something to do...

She started to withdraw her arm, to step sideways.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked, his head snapping round, his voice sounding like a child's.

It hurt her. The lost little boy quality to it broke her heart, and she bled for him.

"I was going to go find Ginny..." She said quietly. He blinked, looked around.

"She's..."

"She's not in the hall." She said nervously. It wasn't like her to be so uncertain, and she didn't like it at all.

Ron hesitated; the next thing she knew, he'd moved forward and was hugging her, with an unfamiliar fierceness. He'd hugged her once or twice before, with an endearing (if slightly annoying) awkwardness. But this was different, and all she could do was hug him back and hope she was helping, if just a little.

He didn't cry. He wouldn't, she knew. Not the type to cry all over her shoulder, in the middle of a crowd. No, he'd wait until he was alone, and cry in private.

For a moment, she considered crying herself; just letting it all out in his arms. But she couldn't. He'd lost a brother – and she, she'd only lost a friend; someone she'd loved like a brother, yes, but still only a friend. If her emotions were tangled and painful, she could only imagine how his were.

And so she'd stay strong, for him, and Harry, and Ginny.

He drew back, and it was the fact that he didn't look embarrassed that told her how much he was struggling.

"Ah...Should I go look for Ginny?" She managed after a few seconds.

"Yeah. Yes." He looked over at his mother, and the sadness was evident on his face. "I better go see my mum..."

"I'll see you later, then." She said, and gripped his hand for a moment. Releasing it, she left the hall.

She made it up a staircase – with half its banister now missing, and three steps caved in – and down a corridor – something that looked like blood stained the bottom of the wall and the floor on one bit of it – before she couldn't take it anymore. She pushed open a door; found a classroom, empty and blissfully untouched. She crawled onto a table, curled up, and sobbed.

Her eyes stung, her throat felt like it was tearing with every sob, and her head and chest ached. But she couldn't stop herself.

She never knew how long she spent there. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. Eventually, she could cry no more, and simply laid, staring blankly ahead of her, shaking slightly. She sat up slowly, forcing herself to breathe evenly, until the ache in her chest eased, and the pain in her throat faded. Then, angry with herself, she jumped up, stormed out of the room.

She was supposed to be finding Ginny, supporting her friend, not crying like a child in some room!

She stormed down the hallway, without really noticing where she was going. And found herself by the library.

She wanted to see what had been done to it. The room she'd spent so long it, depended on – would it be just as destroyed as the rest of the castle?

She entered it nervously, and for a moment just took in the destruction. There were no tables or chairs left whole – shattered, splintered, snapped. Shelves were overturned, books were scattered.

And then she saw Ginny. Sat cross-legged on the floor, a lost look on her face, flicking through a book. She had several heaped beside her, and more were behind her, evidently thrown when they'd proven to be no use. It took Hermione only seconds to understand – and for her heart to break just a little more.

She moved forward in silence, though Ginny must have sensed her. She looked up, met Hermione's gaze, and waited. She was waiting to be gently told her search was futile, to have the book taken from her, to be lead from the room.

But the idea didn't occur to Hermione. She knew, of course, as much as Ginny did, that there was no chance, no possibility, of reversing death.

But Ginny would try, would have to try, and Hermione would help.

She walked forward, sat opposite her, and picked up a book. A small smile of gratitude flitted onto Ginny's face, before she went back to skimming the book.

They sat in silence, flicking through and discarding books. Ginny would throw hers behind her in annoyance, anger, despair, and Hermione would stack hers neatly up.

If the shelves hadn't been tipped over, broken, or on the brink of breaking, she'd have returned them to their places.

Eventually, Bill appeared in the doorway, a tired look on his face.

"We're leaving, now." He told them quietly. Hermione stood; Ginny didn't seem to hear him. "Come on, Ginny." He said. "Let's go. Let's go home."

Ginny nodded, closed the book gently and set it down. She stood slowly, started forward.

Hermione took her hand, not knowing what to say, and hoping to offer comfort.

She thought, as they started down a staircase, that she heard a sob from Ginny.


	66. Sick, Sorry, Stupid and Shy

**Just a light little chapter, because I'm seriously blocked on everything else. (Ten Little Things readers – sorry for the long wait, but I haven't been able to start a chapter. The Sorting readers – I'm trying, I really am.) I'm toying with the idea of a full story about James Potter (the second) and Neville's daughter, though if it happens it probably won't be until after I finish Ten Little Things. Anyway, I'll stop the rambling now.**

**66. Sick, Sorry, Stupid, and Shy**

Neville might just kill him.

James Potter winced at the thought. Murdered by his Herbology teacher. Wouldn't that be...humiliating? He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

Ugh. And not to mention what Al and Lily and everyone were going to say. Imagine it – him and little Allison Longbottom!

Except that she didn't seem so little anymore. Except that she wasn't just Neville's kid, that quiet little girl who'd tag along with him and Al sometimes. She was Ally, funny, sweet, patient, smart Ally. Ally, who had somehow become one of his best friends, despite being a year younger than him. _Ally_.

He'd forgotten she was Neville's daughter. Forgotten that he'd known her for her entire life. Forgotten that her older brother was also one of his closest friends. Forgotten that she'd been Rose's best friend for years, and one of his own since he was thirteen.

He'd forgotten it all, the second he'd kissed her.

Maybe he shouldn't have done that. Maybe he should have just carried on treating her like a friend, just assumed she was practising flirting on him. He should absolutely not have kissed her untill he couldn't think straight.

Since when had he even liked Ally that way?

He finally looked back at her. She'd gone a delicate shade of pink, and had lowered her own gaze firmly to the floor. And he was still pressing her against a wall. Feeling suddenly awkward – he'd never felt awkward around Ally before – he stepped back. She cleared her throat a little, but didn't look at him.

"I, um, should probably, ah, apologise?" He managed uncertainly. What was he supposed to do after kissing one of the few people who meant the world to him?

Jeez, she was practically family!

He was a sick, sick boy.

"Should you?" She finally looked up at him – and her colour deepened several degrees – but she looked faintly annoyed.

"Uh, yeah. Shouldn't I?" He knew his expression was foolish rather than charming, but a few of his brain cells seemed to have melted.

"I don't know."

"I think I should." He replied, even more uncertain. "Um, I'm sorry -"

"Jeez, you are an idiot!" She said suddenly, throwing her arms up in the air. "I've waited for like, a year, for you to get round to doing that, and now you're sorry? Honestly! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Ah...We're not quite sure..."

"Don't make jokes, OK? I'm not one of those stupid bimbos who laugh at your every word, or follow you around like – like groupies!"

"I know. You're way too smart to act like that just 'cause I'm Harry Potter's son." He wasn't really sure if he was trying to make a joke or being serious.

She glared at him. It was nothing new – she'd glared at him loads of times. But never quite so seriously.

He wasn't entirely sure what he'd done wrong.

"Ally -"

"You're a stupid boy, James Potter."

He was getting mildly irritated by the insults now, not least because they were interfering with him trying to think straight. But, when he looked at her, ready to snap back at her, he noticed the faint humiliation in her eyes.

And – because James Potter wasn't that stupid – it clicked.

You were not supposed to make girls think you regretted kissing them. (Especially not when you didn't really regret it at all.)

"And so are you if you think I'm actually sorry." He said, choosing to go with an exasperated eye-roll rather than a sharp tone. "Do you think I actually regret that? I figured I shouldn't have done it, figured you'd be mad or – or something."

"Well I'm not." She replied, sounding calmer now.

"Good. I don't regret it, at all – I'd do it all over again."

She hesitated, and then with a smirk and a shyness that was uniquely hers, asked him, "So why don't you?"

Yep. Neville was going to kill him alright.

(And yet somehow, he couldn't manage to care.)


	67. Selfish Nightmares

**I started writing this literally months ago, and only just came back to it and gave it an ending, so it may not read very well. Thanks to everyone who reviewed.**

**67. Selfish Nightmares**

He shouldn't be having nightmares. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, Draco was aware of that. Nightmares ought to be a thing of the past, a remnant of his childhood, something that he could remember and smile wryly at, amused by how scared he'd been.

But apparently the human mind doesn't care how willing the consciousness is – it will torture the soul anyway.

His nightmares were always similar, though never the same. That would be boring, wouldn't it? If his nightmares were all exactly the same, surely they wouldn't affect him with the same intensity each time.

No, there were little differences. Some nights he'd dream of fire, where the heat of the flames made him dizzy, and Harry Potter's voice would tell him he deserved to die, to be punished.

Others, he'd dream of flashes of green light, of shadowy figures, silhouettes outlined with white, as though to show Draco that they were good and innocent. He'd watch them die, one after the other, then realised the light was coming from a wand he was holding. He was the one murdering innocent people.

Sometimes, sometimes he'd be looking into scarlet eyes, set in a white skull, with a high pitched laugh as a thin, skeletal hand raised a wand...

Draco didn't want to die. Maybe one would assume he'd be suicidal. He had been, at other points in his life. He'd thought about hurling himself off a tower, of letting himself bleed until there was no more blood left in his veins, of turning his wand upon himself, of brewing the strongest poison and drinking it...

But when it came down to it, when you stripped away all the despair and anger and pain, when you came to the raw heart of it, he didn't want to die.

Life was scary; so was death, and he couldn't bring himself to make that leap into the unknown. He'd never asked for life, and if he'd had a choice over it, he probably wouldn't have chosen it, remaining pre-existent, just as he now remained alive.

If death chose to come for him, of its own accord, then so be it.

He pulled himself from his latest nightmare, sweating and panting and sobbing a little as he fumbled for his wand, desperate for light. Finally, his fingers touched the handle, and the tip burst into light at his whispered command. He refused to think of the dream, to remember it, instead trying to ease his breathing, to swallow the sobs.

He felt, beside him, Astoria stirring, and froze. If he dared move, speak, he'd have shut of the wand light, suffering through the silence rather than face the humiliation. Tears, he realised, horrified. There were tears on his face, in his eyes.

He'd cried again, cried in his sleep.

"Draco?" She murmured his name, obviously half asleep.

"Go back to sleep." He said it hoarsely, almost sharply. She could see him, not now. He knew, from past experience, that he'd be pale, that dark shadows would be under his eyes. And the tears...God, he couldn't let her see.

"Are you OK?" She was sitting up, waking up.

"Fine. I'm fine. Go back to sleep." His voice broke traitorously on the last word, and he felt heat rush into his face.

"Draco." She whispered, her arms coming around him. "It's OK, you're OK."

"Stupid." He muttered, unable to stop himself relaxing into her embrace. "Just stupid nightmares."

A little part of him expected her to laugh, or mock. Nightmares, at his age? Nightmares that reduced him to shaking sobs?

But she didn't; it just wasn't who she was. Instead, she held him tighter, murmuring softly, soothingly.

He didn't deserve her. He should walk away from her, leave her, before he hurt her, destroyed her, reduced her to what he was.

Except he'd already tried that, months ago when he'd realised he loved her. And she hadn't let him.

And now, here, in the dark, broken and tormented, he knew he didn't have the strength to walk away from her.


	68. The Wedding

**Well I wrote this ages ago, but wasn't sure I liked it. Am still not, actually, but I think it's a least readable. **

**68. The Wedding**

James Potter, a total of eight years old, scowled as his mother attempted to neaten his hair. It was really only a token effort, as though just so she could say she'd tried, before she gave up and straightened his shirt instead.

"I don't wanna go." He told her flatly, and she fixed him with a look that sometimes – just sometimes – made him obey. Not out of fear, exactly, because Ginny wasn't the type to hit her children. But there was something in her eyes that made you decide obeying was the best option.

"I don't much want to go, either." She told him. "But your dad feels he ought to, since they invited him."

"But what's the point of going to the wedding of someone we've never even met?" James asked.

"Because Dudley is your dad's cousin, and...well, I guess he feels that if Dudley's bothered to invite him, he should go." Ginny shrugged, with a look that said she didn't much understand it either.

"But that's just stupid." Al, seven years old and at a phase of agreeing with everything his elder brother said, put in. "Dad hasn't even seen him since –"

"Look, there's no point arguing. We're going. Now, where's your sister...?"

"Dunno." James shrugged. "Here, mess with Al's hair."

Barely seconds later, Lily, all of four years old, burst into the room, a blur of white and red.

"I can't believe dad put you in a white dress." Ginny said, one eyebrow raised. "It'll be filthy within the hour."

"I'll keep it clean, mummy." Lily replied, with a wide-eyed innocence.

"It's the only one she'd wear." Harry said, finally entering the living room. "The ones your mother bought her are all too girly, apparently."

"They're all pink and frilly." Lily agreed. "Look stupid."

"Can't say I blame you, kid." Ginny replied. "But mum's always hoped for a little girl to spoil. Anyway, are we ready?"

Harry looked over then all, then checked his watch. "I guess we better go." He murmured. Something close to nerves crossed over his face, then faded. "Ah...come on then..."

He herded the kids out of the house, then let Ginny pass, before locking up.

"Why can't we floo?" Albus asked, causing James to hit him over the head.

"Duh. It's a muggle wedding. There's nowhere to floo _to_." James told him.

"James, don't hit your brother." Harry sighed.

"But he's being stupid." James replied, as he opened the car door.

"James." Ginny said warningly, and he mumbled something under his breath as he climbed inside. Al and Lily followed; their parents got in the front. Ginny was driving.

It took them over an hour to drive there, during which Lily constantly asked if they were nearly there, James asked twice why he couldn't have gone to Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione's instead, and Al announced that he couldn't wait till he could apparate, getting annoyed when James replied with "Tough."

Finally, however, they parked the car outside a small church. Ginny cast an eye over the place, then turned to Harry. "I didn't know they were religious."

"I don't think they were, particularly. We never went to church or anything." He shrugged. "Maybe her family is. Kids, best behaviour, OK?"

"Uh-huh." James replied distractedly.

"Jay," Ginny said, causing her son to look at her. "Promise me, no messing around, OK? You two, as well."

"Promise." They chorused.

"Mum, how do they get pictures on the glass?" Lily asked, looking at the building with interest.

"Ah...I don't know, honey. Ask granddad when you get home, OK?"

"'K."

Harry checked his watch, then the nerves fleeted across his face again. "We better go inside."

They did so, quickly finding seats at the back. Harry craned his neck, saw the groom.

Dudley Dursley had grown up, but had changed very little.

He sought out his aunt and uncle, found then. His aunt wasn't grey, though he though she should be by now. Dye, he decided. Aunt Petunia wasn't the type to let herself go grey. His uncle was rapidly balding, though. He wondered, as he could only see the back of their heads, if their faces had aged.

It was strange, seeing them, seeing Dudley, and even Aunt Marge, now that he was an adult. So strange.

They turned when the music started; saw a small, round women on the arm on a greying man, a huge smile on her face. The bride, Harry decided.

"Aren't they a little old to be getting married?" James whispered. "He's dad's age, and dad's like, ancient."

"Thanks for that." Harry muttered. "Now be quiet."

The ceremony was traditional, and Harry could barely concentrate on it, trying instead to plan out what he'd say when he finally had to talk to them. And then it was over, and the bride and groom were heading out of the church, and he'd have to see them soon.

"Are you sure you want to go to the reception?" Ginny asked him quietly as they stood and started towards the doors.

"I think I have to say hi." He murmured. "But we won't stay long."

Number four, Privet Drive, hadn't changed at all. For a moment, stepping through the doors, he felt six years old again. The James pointed to the cupboard under the stairs, and whispered loudly to his siblings; "That's where dad used to sleep."

"Really?" Lily asked, awestruck.

"Jay - Shh." Harry whispered, wondering how Aunt Petunia would react if the guests found out she'd once locked her nephew in a cupboard. "Look, let's just find Dudley, congratulate, then leave, OK?"

It didn't take long to locate Dudley – primarily because he sought them out. There was a slight awkwardness on his face as he made his way towards Harry, but when he reached them he held out his hand, offered a smile.

"Harry?"

"Hey, Dudley." Harry replied. "Ah...Congratulations."

"Thanks." Dudley nodded. "Ah..." He glanced over Ginny and the kids, the former of who was watching Dudley with slightly narrowed eyes, as though reserving judgement.

"Oh. Ah, my, uh, wife. Ginny. I'd have invited you to the wedding, Dudley, but, well, I didn't think you'd come..."

"Probably not." Dudley nodded, with an extremely awkward smile, then swept his gaze over the kids. "Yours?"

Harry nodded. "James...Albus...and Lily." He gestured to each in turn. Dudley smiled at all three of them; none smiled back. Lily even glared.

"You used to hit my dad." She told Dudley. "Jay told me. You were horrible to him."

"Lily." Harry hissed. "It was a long, long time ago."

Dudley flushed, then stammered apologises that Harry awkwardly waved away.

"We – ah – well we'll go now." Harry managed finally. Dudley opened his mouth as if to protest; someone else spoke first.

"Harry?" He turned slowly, looked at the aunt he hadn't seen in years. She looked bonier, older, with creases in her skin.

"Aunt - aunt Petunia." He murmured, and had to fight a sudden urge to smirk when Ginny clamped a hand over Lily's mouth to stop her speaking. "Ah...how - how are you?"

She simply nodded, looked at him, and then his sons, Lily and Ginny, who offered an awkward smile as she withdrew her hand suddenly, whiped her palm on her thigh.

"Lily, don't _lick_ me."

"Wasn't gonna say anything." Lily muttered.

Harry stammered more introductions to his aunt, who remained silent the whole time. Then, when he was done, she looked at him carefully.

"I'm glad you...that you're happy." She managed finally.

"Well, I bet Uncle Vernon will be surprised I amounted to anything." He said, before he could stop himself. Aunt Petunia and Dudley both looked uncomfortable. "I - I mean...I mean, tell Uncle Vernon I said "hi". We're going now." He grabbed hold of Lily's wrist, pulled her towards the door.

"Daddy, is your uncle Vernon that one, with the big head?" Lily asked loudly. Harry looked up to see where she was pointing, and found his uncle stood a foot away. For a moment, just a moment, he was a scared six-year-old, who'd gone to the only adults in the house after a nightmare, and had been shouted at, thrown out of the room, sent back to his dark cupboard...

He didn't stop, didn't acknowledge him, but instead kept pulling his daughter towards the door, aware that Ginny was following with the boys. He didn't stop until they'd reached the car, where he hurriedly fastened Lily's seatbelt.

"We didn't even get anything to eat." James muttered as he climbed in.

"We'll feed you when we get home." Ginny promised. As she pulled her own door closed, her hand closed briefly over Harry's, her expression asking if he was OK.

"Let's just go." Harry murmured, sitting back in his seat as the engine started up. "I knew it was a bad idea. I didn't even want to go."

"Dad," Albus said loudly, "If you didn't want to go, and I didn't, and James didn't, and neither did mum or Lily, then why _did_ we?"

"I...Have no idea." Harry sighed.

"Oh." Albus settled back thoughtfully. He didn't think he'd ever had a question his parents couldn't answer.

"Dad...does this mean we aren't going to see those people again?" James asked, after several moment of silence.

"Definitly." Harry replied.

"Good." All three children chorused.

And Harry smiled for several minutes. (He might have smiled for the rest of the drive home, but he had o difuse and argument between Lily and Albus.)


	69. Falling Apart

**Not entirely sure where this came from, but I quite like it. **

**69. Falling Apart**

The first time he starts to fall apart, he's alone with Ginny. It's three weeks after the Christmas holidays; weeks of worrying about Luna, weeks of wondering how much worse the Carrows can get, weeks of rumours, speculation, and other people's tears.

Neville never thought of himself as strong, not emotionally or physically. These past few months, however, he's proved himself a little, if only _to_ himself. He's been holding up remarkably well, organising things, teaching and learning, making sure everyone, even the first years (those who dare, anyway; most of them are too scared to anything other than what they're told by the adults) are able to defend themselves. He's been standing up to the Carrows, and helping those who can't take it anymore.

Neville's had girls cry on him; he's had boys grip his shoulder or arm tightly as they fight for control. And he has, just a few times, had boys cry all over him, too. But they don't talk about that; it's the unwritten male code to pretend it never happened.

So Neville buried his own emotions, and made sure everyone around him was OK.

Now, though, he can't. He squeezes his eyes closed, grips his hands together tightly, and tries to sort himself out. Ginny, across the room, looks up. She knows, she sees, and a small part of him is ashamed. He shouldn't be, after all the people who fell apart on him; he understands that everyone reaches a point where they can no longer cope. But the shame is there.

"Neville?" Ginny asks carefully. He nods, his eyes still shut.

"Minute." He manages, forsaking the "Give me a" part of the sentence because he knows she'll understand. She crosses the room, hugs him tightly.

"Go on." She whispers. She's depended on him a lot, and he knows she won't judge him, not even a little bit.

So he cries. He's a silent crier, though his face goes blotchy with it. He clings to her, shaking.

It's not long before he realises she's shaking too; she's crying again. And he knows that Ginny is using all her strength, all her energy, in keeping herself together, stopping herself worrying about her brothers, her parents, Harry and Hermione.

And he knows that Ginny, for all her appearances of being invincible, doesn't have enough strength to hold him up, too.

They stand, for a few more minutes, both crying, both shaking, both breaking. But it's easier, much easier, for him to push it all aside, inside, and concentrate on her.

So he pulls himself together, comforts Ginny, and feels no better.

He needs to fall apart; and can't.

--

The second time he starts to fall apart, he's with Luna. It's been a few hours since it all ended, since he carried bodies – _bodies_ – inside, since he fought people older, stronger, better than him. Since he looked death in the eyes, and escaped.

He's not sure what he's feeling, exactly. Relief, horror, misery, elation, pride. It's all jumbled, tangled, sapping his energy. And he can't keep it all under control anymore; the breakdown has been waiting for months, and he doesn't have the energy to fight it.

His sits, slowly, draws his knees up to his chest, carefully folds him arms on top of them, and lays his head on top.

"Neville?" Luna asks carefully; he doesn't reply, can't. She crosses the room, sits beside him, and puts her arm around him. She doesn't know what to do; Luna, though one of his favourite people, isn't used to having someone depend on her, lean on her. And he knows that this is beyond her. Unused to having friends, Luna doesn't know how to support them.

He aches a little for her, for the things she's been deprived off. And he thinks that if she realised she was unable to comfort (though, he thinks vaguely, maybe it's not her, maybe no one can comfort him, maybe this just can't be fixed) she might get upset. So he forces it all back under, with control that surprises him.

He manages to raise his head, hastily dries his face.

"Are you OK?" Luna whispers. He nods, forces a smile. It's never cost him so much to conjure up a smile.

"Yes. Thanks." He murmurs to Luna. They're silent for a while, and Neville forces his mind, his heart, to remain blank.

He needs to fall apart; and won't.

--

The third time he starts to fall apart, he's with Hannah. It's been over a month, now, since that night. The funerals are done – he wishes they'd blurred together, but they're all clear and defined in his mind. He doesn't think he'll ever forget Colin Creevey's mother screaming, nor the Weasleys, silent and broken with one missing, or any of the other mothers, fathers, siblings, who he watched bury a loved one.

How can he?

Hannah calls out that she'll be another minute, so he settles back in his chair. He was surprised to find her working here, in the Leaky Cauldron and mentioned it. She'd told him that Tom was a relative, and that since she couldn't face going back to Hogwarts, her career opportunities were limited. He thinks, really, that her experience is far more important than a few exams, but she seems happy enough here, so he's said nothing.

Now, they're alone. It's her turn to lock up, and since he doesn't want her making her way home alone, he's waiting to make sure she gets there safe. They're alone, and suddenly, he remembers her crying, when they were in the Room of Requirement. She apologised, he remembers. She fell apart and was ashamed.

He laughs a little, rather humourlessly, at the thought of her being ashamed for crying.

He wishes he'd got the chance.

It hits him suddenly. All the suppressed emotions manage to escape their box, and flood him.

He doesn't cry. He begins to shake, he closes his eyes, and he grips the table, his head down. Not now, not here. Not with Hannah, sweet, tormented Hannah, who always seemed so innocent before, and now seems far too mature, far too capable.

There used to be a little sparkle in her eyes, he remembers. A light. An innocent little light that made her seem too naive.

It's gone, now. And so he can't fall apart on her, can't expect her to hold him up.

As he fights for control – where has it gone, all his control, his strength, seems to have broken, and the emotions won't go back in their box – she crosses the room to him. She doesn't speak, simply wraps her arms around him. He slides to the floor, can't help it. And can't help but be relieved when she slides with him, holds him tighter. And he cries, just a little.

"I'm here." She whispers. "I'm here."

She doesn't need him to comfort her, or protect her. She doesn't need him to be selfless, to put her first.

She's here for him, completely, and expecting nothing back.

And finally, finally he can break.

They sit there for a long, long time (he has no sense of time, but that's not important) and he falls apart, completely. The emotions he'd been suppressing seep out gladly, escape from him.

He falls apart; and when he's done, he starts to heal.


	70. Only the Strong

**70. Only The Strong**

_Only the strong survive._

He'd never considered that he might die. Colin Creevey had always thought himself too young to die.

Now, standing in the midst of fear and chaos, he wonders if that makes him stupid or innocent. Either way, he knows better now; Voldemort is on his way, and Colin can practically sense Death himself, waiting, lurking.

It's terrifying, and he'll never deny this fear. He can't. He's unashamed of it; when people are sobbing, screaming, shouting, panicked and scared, it's impossible to feel ashamed.

They're near the Room of Requirement now, and this is where the centre of the chaos is. This is the only way out, the only way to safety, and so for the people around him, this is their focus.

He looks around, and sees Anthony Goldstein tightly hugging his little sister. She looks about Dennis's age, maybe a year or two younger. She's crying, and Colin hears, painfully clearly, what she's saying.

"Promise me – Promise you'll come home." Her voice is so childlike, so pathetic, that Colin couldn't stop listening, couldn't turn away. "Please, promise you'll live..."

"I promise. Greta, I promise." Anthony's voice doesn't sound steady, either, Colin notices. "I promise." He whispers. It's painfully obvious that neither truly believe; yet both have to pretend.

He watches them embrace again, watches Anthony guide his sister towards the exit.

And his heart breaks a little for the siblings saying what could be their final goodbye, and parting on a lie.

He hopes, as he watches Anthony turn away, walk away with his heart on his sleeve, that he makes it home to his little sister.

_Only the strong survive._

Even as he moves closer, through the crowd, he spots a first year boy, crying and looking around, saying someone's name. As he watches, a fifth year boy runs towards him, grabbing him so hard he nearly leaves the floor. "I thought – I thought – come on, we need to get out of here." The fifth year, evidently his brother, pulls him none too gently towards the exit.

The first year's eyes are far too big, far too terrified. He's shaking, still crying a little, and Colin thinks the boy is only minutes away from sobbing for his mother.

His heart breaks a little more, for the boy who now knows true fear.

All around, people are searching for friends or siblings, crying or yelling or panicking. No one wants to stay; no one here is allowed.

But Colin knows what he has to do.

"I'm staying." He says it quietly, but even in the noise around them, Dennis hears.

"They won't let you." Dennis replies quickly, his voice just a little too high, his eyes a little too wide. "You're still under-age -"

"I know. I know, but I – Dennis, I know you understand. If they send me back, I'll see you at home, OK?"

They both know that no one will be able to make Colin go home. No one will be able to stop him doing this. But Dennis nods.

Like the Goldsteins, they know it's easier to pretend.

"Please – go -" Colin says quickly, urging his brother forwards.

"Colin..." Words fail his brother, and Colin daren't try to find any – he can't tell his brother everything he should, because he has to believe he'll make it home.

_Only the strong survive._

They embrace, as they never have before. As if it's their last.

Then Colin watches his brother through the exit, his heart breaking just a little bit more.

And then he turns, walks quickly away, and prepares to fight.

It's underway quickly, and Colin is hardly sure what he's doing. There's a vague excitement somewhere inside him, for the battle, the rush it gives him to fight. But more, more there is simple fear. And every instinct is screaming at him to leave, to go home.

_Maybe a part of him, a part of him that isn't conscious, knows he's never going to make it home._

He thinks, fleetingly, of giving in to that instinct and going home to his brother, his mother, his father. But he _can't._

What kind of Gryffindor would that make him? What kind of wizard? What kind of man?

And so he fights on.

Something, something makes him turn. He turns quickly – everything has to be quick here, in this, because a slow movement could kill you.

He wasn't fast enough; or maybe this was one case where speed makes no difference. But Colin sees the green light, feels the heat of it, and knows that this is the end, his end.

Death was waiting, lurking. For him.

In his last moments, Colin's heart breaks just a little more, for his brother, his mother, his father. For the family he'll never see again.

They say only the strong survive; but they're wrong. Strength isn't just about survival; it takes strength to fight for what's important, and to understand how much a cause is worth.

In his last moments, as his heart breaks for those he loves, Colin knows he did what was right, fought for something important to him, and paid the ultimate cost; but a price he was prepared to pay.

It was the lucky who survived that night. And Colin Creevey's luck ran out; he never made it home.


	71. Bad Guys and War Games

**71. Bad Guys and War Games**

"OK – go low – run, Lily, run!" James Potter shouted dramatically. His sister, all of six years old, ran across the garden, her long red hair streaming behind her.

"No giggling, Lily!" Albus scolded, and she instantly stopped, forcing a serious face that didn't disguise the amusement in her eyes.

"Get down, get down, Death Eaters!" James cried, and threw himself to the floor, rolling as his cousin waved a stick at him. Lily giggled again, quickly silencing herself at Al's look. He, too, had dropped to the floor; taking the hint, Lily sat down.

"Take that!" Al said loudly, leaping up and aiming a twig at Rose, who dodged an imaginary curse, spun and jabbed her stick towards Al, who let out an intense cry of pain and dropped to the floor.

"Nooooooo!" Lily cried, a huge smirk on her face, as she crawled over to her brother. "Al – Al – wake up..."

"Is he OK?" James cried, waving his stick – slightly bigger than everyone else's, of course, because he was the oldest – towards Hugo, who rolled his eyes, stepped to the left, and sighed loudly.

"No!" Lily yelled, her voice entwined with laughter. "They killed him!"

"Die, Death Eaters, die!" James shouted, aiming his stick at Rose and waving it with flourish. Rose let out her own dramatic cry, and dropped heavily – though convincingly – to the ground.

James turned to Hugo, his eyes narrowed.

"Why do I always have to be a bad guy?" Hugo said sulkily. "I wanna be on the good team."

"Shh, Hugo, you're ruining it." Rose hissed from her spot on the ground. "You can be a good guy next time, OK?"

Hugo let out another loud sigh, and raised the thick stem of a plant.

From the kitchen, Ginny Weasley watched with amusement.

"How're the kids?" Harry asked, from the table where he was filling in paperwork.

"Well, so far Al and Rose are dead – oh, wait, there goes Hugo."

"What?" Harry's head snapped up, then shook as he realised what she meant. "They're playing "war" again?"

"Yep." Ginny replied, watching in amusement as James picked up Lily – something which he wasn't technically allowed to do, she noted – and assured her they were safe now. "James is a pretty good actor, you know. Really gets into it. And he's still managing to play the part, even though Lily can't stop laughing. Hardly the grieving sister, is she?"

"Don't you think we should stop them playing that game?"

Ginny sighed a little herself and turned away from the window. "Harry, they're just playing."

"Yeah, I know. But the war wasn't a game, Ginny."

"It is to them. And I'd much rather they have fun, enjoy themselves, than be scared or worried. The war was terrifying and painful and horrific for us, Harry. It doesn't have to be that way for them."

He paused, considering, then stood and joined her by the window.

"They've only been out there ten minutes." He observed. "They fought a battle and James killed two Death Eaters in ten minutes? How easy does he think it is?"

"Ah, but James is a very skilled wizard." Ginny said with a smirk. They watched for a while as James and Al wrestled on the grass, Rose tied the stem that had been Hugo's want into knots, and Lily and Hugo talked. "Does it really bother you when they play war?"

Harry shrugged, sighed, and nodded.

"I...I don't agree. And I'm not going to make them stop. But if you want to, you can go out and tell them." She shurgged, watching the kids organise themselves again.

After a pause, Harry walked towards the back door, and outside.

The war game had started back up again; a few seconds of observation told him that Hugo and Al had swapped teams.

He was about to call out to them, about to tell them that war wasn't fun, wasn't a game.

Then he saw the way his daughter laughed as she ran across the grass. Saw the light in James's eyes as he dodged an imaginary a curse, and Albus's smile as he drew large, fast circles in the air with his twig-wand.

They were happy. And wasn't that what he wanted for them? When they were older they could understand the war, could be awed and saddened and even afraid. But for now, there was no need for that.

So he leaned against the door, and watched them.

"Hey – dad!" James called out to him. "Are you gonna play, too? We need another Death Eater, to make it fair..."

The word "no" was almost out of his mouth before he stopped it. With a smile, he walked across the grass towards his children, niece, and nephew, and picked up another discarded twig from the grass by the tree.

"Sure. But I'm better at it than you." He warned James, who looked thrilled.

"Wanna bet?" His eldest challenged, then ran across the grass.

Harry smiled, then aimed the twig at his son. After all, he'd never got to play the bad guy before.


	72. Faces In Pictures, In Streets

**This may be slightly depressing. I'm not sure. Appologies if it is, but it just came into my head. Happy Halloween.**

**72. Faces (In Pictures, In Streets)**

He was six the first time. Well, maybe it happened before, but he was six the first time he remembers it happening, and as far as Teddy is concerned, the things you don't remember don't mean anything.

Not, of course, that he'll say it to Grandma. Ever. Or even Harry or Ginny or anyone. Because they're always telling him that during the first six weeks or so of his life, his parents were there and they loved him and held him and fed him and did all the things parents are supposed to do.

But Teddy doesn't remember that, and so it may well have not happened. They may well not have existed.

However. At six, he was out with Ron, in muggle London. They were on their way to the WWW, and Teddy was excited because he always, always got a present when they went there, and George would always tell him it was a brand new product and hardly anyone had it yet, and Grandma would pretend to disapprove but really she was pleased by the Weasleys' obvious love for him. So, his emotions were heightened, he was chattering excitedly to an amused Ron, and they walked down the street at a six-year-old's pace. And Teddy saw a flash of pink.

He froze, his sentence hanging in mid-air and his eyes frantically searching the crowd for the pink he'd seen. And he saw it – short pink hair, a bright bubblegum shade, the kind Teddy hated because it was "girly" and secretly liked because it was the colour of the smiling woman in the pictures that people called his mother.

And Teddy took off running, abandoning Ron as he hurried towards the pink hair. His mother's hair. He'd found her, he'd found her, and she wasn't lost anymore –

Ron reached him as Teddy caught up with the woman, grabbing her sleeve. As Ron swung him up into the air, the woman turned, and Teddy's mouth dropped open.

It wasn't his mother. For one thing, she was scowling. For another, her skin was shades darker than his mother's, a deep golden colour. Nothing was the same, and Teddy leaned back against Ron in confusion.

"Sorry. Sorry." Ron said quickly, stepping away. The woman carried on walking, and Ron took Teddy to a bench, sat him down. "What the hell – I mean, what was that about? Teddy?"

"I thought it was my mum." Teddy told him quietly. "She had pink hair, like on the photos. Not all of them, though, because mum could change it, like me. Wait – maybe that is my mum and she just changed -"

He started to search the crowd for her again, but Ron sighed and crouched in front of him, blocking his view.

"Teddy, mate, you know about your parents. You know they're...dead."

"I know. I know. Grandma said that they're still with me, really, but they can't be here. But isn't that like when she loses her wand – it's there somewhere but she can't see it? I thought I'd found my mum."

Ron's expression was one of deep sympathy, and slight pity, though Teddy wouldn't realise that until much later.

"Teddy...I didn't know you were looking for them." Ron said carefully.

"I'm not. Grandma said they can't come back. But I thought..."

"OK. OK. Come on. Let's go to the store." Ron said quietly, and lifted Teddy up, carrying him all the way to the Leaky Cauldron, and then to the WWW.

And when Grandma came in at bedtime, she sat down and told Teddy that death was forever and his parents could never come back.

He didn't sleep much that night, wondering why the unfamiliar faces in the pictures were still his parents when he could never get to meet them.

--------

He was almost ten the next time. Five and a half months away, and Teddy knew exactly how long because he was excited about turning ten. Ten was double figures, almost able to get a wand, almost a teenager.

Ten was practically a grown-up.

He was going through a phase of making everyone call him Ted, because that seemed more grown-up and mature to him. Teddy was a child's name (and, worse, a child's toy) while Ted was an adult's.

Mostly, everyone remembered. Even when, a few months later, he decided it didn't matter so much anyway, his name was still sometimes shortened to Ted, until both names were used equally as frequent, and he hardly noticed which was which.

But at nine years old, it was very important that everyone call him Ted.

He was in the garden at Grandma's when he looked up and saw a man walking down the street. And for a moment, just a moment, he thought...

The hair was the same. Brown with grey flecks. And the build was the same, too. And for just a quick moment Ted felt the flash of hope, of wonder, of amazement and disbelief.

And then the man drew closer, and Ted realised that it wasn't his father after all. Dropping the little blue ball he'd been playing with, Ted ran inside, and into the living room. The picture of his parents wedding day was fixed up on the wall, and for a long time Teddy just studied it, looking at the face of the man who was supposed to be his father.

And wondering bitterly why he couldn't see the face for real.

--------

It happened now and again. As he grew older, it was more of a that's-what-my-parents-would-be-like-now kind of thing, rather than a that's-my-parents. A laughing woman hugging her son in the street would take on the face of his mother. A man deep in thought would resemble, just for a moment, that one picture of his father reading a book and frowning in concentration.

A middle-aged couple holding hands would become a could-have-been. If Remus and Tonks had lived, would they stroll through streets hand-in-hand?

He can do nothing but wonder, and study the faces in the pictures.


	73. Pregnancy and Everything

**This feels slightly more like pointless rambling than an actual fic, but I think it's OK. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last time, btw. And my _Ten Little Things_ and _The Sorting_ readers? I'm sorry I'm taking so long, I'm pathetically blocked on both. **

**73. Pregnancy and Everything**

"Why?"

Teddy Lupin frowned slightly in confusion. "Why?" was not the response he'd been expecting when he'd told James that Victoire was pregnant again.

In fact, Teddy thought, "why?" was a pretty insulting one, especially when Teddy and Victoire were themselves ecstatic.

"What do you mean, why?" He asked, half-annoyed, half-confused.

"You've already got three." James told him patiently.

"Yes, James. I'm aware of that. They are not easy to ignore. And I've tried. We want another one."

Had always planned another one, Teddy thought. At least four, was what he'd told Victoire when they'd first got together. She'd been just shy of seventeen, he'd been days away from turning nineteen. They'd been blissfully in love and it hadn't occurred to either of them that they wouldn't be together forever. Marriage and babies, she'd said. A big family, he'd agreed. At least four.

And three babies later, they hadn't doubted for a second that they'd go for their minimum. Not yet thirty, Teddy couldn't wait to expand his family.

"We might even have more after this one." Teddy added, his voice almost challenging.

"More? Actually – pregnancy and everything?"

"Yes. That's how it usually works. Pregnancy, baby. Do you follow? Should I get Harry to come and explain it all to you?"

"Ha ha. I _mean_, why pregnancy? Ted, you've been to Phoenix house – hell, you've helped out there more times than you have the ability to count to. You've seen the kids there. Why don't you, instead of popping out your own every couple of years, give one of them a home? A family. Parents, Teddy. You, of all people, should want to give those kids parents..."

"What, because I'm an orphan too?" Teddy asked, his voice quiet, considering.

"Yes. I mean, I know Dora wasn't planned, so OK. Obviously. But why go on to have Adelaide and Juno? Not that I don't love them, or that I'm wishing them away, but Phoenix house has so many..."

"I know. And I understand what you're saying." Teddy ran a hand through his hair. It was messy and windswept, a bright, dazzling yellow, which looked horrible but conveyed his excitement effectively. "You've always been drawn to that place, haven't you? Even as a little kid, I remember, you always said your own children would come from there."

"I spent a lot of time there, growing up. Still do. I grew up with some of the kids there, some were my friends. Grandma runs the place; dad set it up with his own money – his own house."

"He said Sirius Black would have appreciated it." Teddy nodded. "And the way everyone talks about how it was as Grimmauld Place, turning it into a wizarding orphanage is..."

"It's amazing. People always talk about Dad for the war. But that place...Only a small amount of them ever get adopted. That's their home, their family. Grandma's their maternal figure. For as long as I can remember, I thought that when I was older, when I got married, I'd adopt as many as I could. I'm one of the lucky ones; I have a great family. Even you – you were always family, you always had us. And they deserve it too. How can you not want to give them all that? There's enough to choose from."

"I know. Although if you know how many muggle kids there are without families, you'd be amazed that there aren't more at Phoenix House. But, anyway. Did your dad ever tell you why he didn't adopt?"

"Yeah. Too close to it. He set it up himself, he's worked there, for free, whenever he could fit it in – well, the whole family has. He knows those kids, has done since they first turned up on the doorstep, and the ones who get adopted – Grandma and the other workers handle it all, but dad insists on meeting every knew parent, doesn't he? He once told me that he seriously considered it, him and mum, but that there was no possible way they could choose between all those kids there. And I get that."

"Don't really approve, though, do you?" Teddy grinned. James grinned back, then sobered.

"You're not one of those stupid if-there's-no-blood-there's-no-family people, are you?" James demanded, sounding annoyed. "Who don't believe adopted children are really yours, who think it takes DNA to be a parent?"

"Of course not. I'm your family, aren't I, despite the lack of blood and DNA. What do you take me for? In the grand scheme of things, blood doesn't make you belong. But I..."

"But you what?"

"I've always needed that - that family that's a part of me. I'm not saying, not for a second, that an adopted child wouldn't be mine. I'm not saying I'd love them any differently. But I...Maybe it's because of my parents. Probably is. I need that link, that permanent link. Not to make them feel they belong, but so I feel like I belong. And I know that sounds stupid. Maybe that does make me stupid. But I need the blood tie, because I never had one to you guys, and, other than my grandmother, never had anyone tied to me. I...I guess, yeah, I never had my parents, the people who I came from."

"That is stupid. You're no less family." James said coolly.

"I know. I can't explain it properly, James. I hardly understand it myself."

James paused, and Teddy felt the urge for a cigarette. It surprised and annoyed him, because he hadn't smoked since he was eighteen. Started, he remembered, because he'd thought it would make him cool. And stopped because Victoire had hated it.

"I'm going to adopt." James said finally. "Maybe it's because I had the secure family base, maybe it's because I've never for a second doubted that I belong to my family. But blood means nothing to me, nothing at all, and so I'll adopt, and if I get my way I'll do it five or six times. I'll love my kids just as much as you love yours, Teddy. They'll be mine, they'll belong, and they'll damn well know it. But...I understand that it's different for you. I...OK, well I guess I can't understand."

"You'll accept it though?" It was strange, Teddy thought, that he suddenly needed approval. From someone seven years younger than him, someone who was his little brother in every way that counted.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll accept it. And you have got great kids."

"I do." Teddy smiled proudly. "We're hoping for a boy this time – three girls, we'd like to balance it some. James...Maybe, if me and Vee decide we want more after this – and I gotta tell you, I think it's likely – we'll consider, we'll talk about, going to Phoenix House instead of "pregnancy and everything". But I can't make no promises, and I don't know if it's even likely we'll adopt. But you're right – I understand what it's like to be them, and I am luckier than they are. So I'll think about it."

"OK. It's all I can ask." James laughed. "So, a boy, huh?"

"We'd like one. Though another girl will, of course, be fine."

"Uh-hm. Nice to get a bit of testosterone in the house, though, wouldn't it?"

"Oh God yes."


	74. Parents

**Bit longer than my usual Jigsaw Pieces, but I don't think this is strong enough to stand on it's own. **

**74. Parents**

When he caught himself wondering if he ought to borrow one of his father's ties, Scorpius knew he was working himself up too much.

After all, he was only meeting his girlfriend's parents. That's all. And it wasn't like he was spending ages there; just picking her up, really. It would be a quick introduction, maybe a short conversation. Then he could escape, spend some time with said girlfriend, and drop her off home.

Simple.

Or it would be, Scorpius thought, half-annoyed with himself, if his girlfriend didn't happen to be Lily Potter. If her father didn't happen to be the famous Harry Potter. That changed everything.

Actually, Scorpius thought, maybe it would still be simple – if slightly intimidating – if only he wasn't Draco Malfoy's son.

_Son of a Death Eater._

_Murder's spawn._

_Do you have a dark mark, too, Malfoy?_

_Did your father kill, Malfoy? Did he murder?_

_Are you proud they're dead? Look at the memorial – look at all the names –_

_Murderer._

The shouts and sneers and taunts echoed, for just a moment, in his head. Filled his mind, tangling and overlapping, until he forced them to silence again.

In over six years, the worst of the bullying had faded, the worst offenders grown bored, left the school, or realised that he didn't, in actual fact, deserve their hate.

But Scorpius still heard the words, sometimes. Still heard the hate and anger and sometimes – worse, much, much worse – the grief in the voices.

He could handle the disgust of those who despised him for his father. He could handle the hate at his surname. But he couldn't handle the grief of those who'd been affected by the Death Eater's, those who were orphans because of his Grandfather's colleagues.

At least, he hoped, desperately, that it was his Grandfather's colleagues who had made orphans out of his bullies, because he didn't think he could cope with it being his Grandfather.

He didn't blame his peers for their hate, for their words, their curses, their fists. He understood.

After all these years, Scorpius could fight the burn of shame, suppress it.

_I wasn't there. I wasn't even born. It wasn't my fault._

Those words had been his protests, at first. His way to try and stop the words, curses, fists. Then they'd been his lifeline, his way to stop himself drowning in his own shame, his own self-hate.

He shook his head, dragged himself back to the present. Almost done with school, he reminded himself. Two terms and he was out of there. Two terms. And it wasn't all bad. Mostly, the students had accepted him. And he had friends, didn't he? Surprisingly, amazingly, enough, he was friends with Albus, with Rose.

Two people who had the greatest reason to hate him. Irony was one of Scorpius' favourite things.

"OK. We're done. We're ready. We can do this." Scorpius said to his reflection in the mirror. "It's time to go. We can do this. We can get through this."

As he left his room, Scorpius wondered which he should worry more about; the fact that he talked to himself, or the fact that he referred to himself as "we" while he did so.

---------

"And you have to sit down, too, if he does. None of that standing-up-so-you-look-scary stuff." Lily Potter told her father.

"OK."

"And don't throw him out, either. I don't care what you think he's done wrong, you won't humiliate me that way."

"Right."

"And give him a chance, please?" Lily's voice was less forceful now. "He's a great guy, Dad. I'd hate for to judge him just on his family's past."

"Lily, I promise. I won't even look at him as Malfoy's son."

Ginny caught her husband's eye at that point, but Harry refused to look guilty. It wasn't like it was a lie.

The fact that Lily's new boyfriend happened to be Draco Malfoy's son meant very little to him, now that he was over the shock. No, more important issues were that Scorpius was seventeen, and in his last year of Hogwarts, while Lily was in her fifth.

Her fifth year. Far too young for an of-age boyfriend, especially one who wanted to see her over the Christmas holidays. To take her out so they could exchange gifts.

On Christmas Eve!

Harry wasn't exactly sure why that offended him so much, but he was sure there was a valid reason somewhere.

Lily nodded, muttered something, and left the room.

"Harry. Stop glaring." Ginny said mildly, and Harry couldn't fight the smile.

"I wasn't."

"Were. If this is because he's a little older than her -"

"Two years!"

"I'd like to remind you that I'm a year younger than you – and our Victoire's two years younger than Teddy."

"That's different. It's – it's Teddy."

"And Scorpius is a Malfoy?" Ginny asked flatly.

"No – it's not that – Scorpius is a hormonal teenager -"

"And Teddy was devoid of hormones in his teens, was he? And you, too?"

Harry opened and closed his mouth several times before giving up.

"You've met him before, anyway." Ginny told him. "You even said he seemed nice enough."

"Met him before? He came to a couple of Al's birthday parties. And Rose's. I didn't speak to him - he seemed terrified around me."

"And I imagine Al and Rose were the same at Scorpius' birthday parties."

"Besides – just because he's a good mate of Albus's doesn't mean he'll be a good boyfriend."

"Lily seems to think he is. And as he's her boyfriend, not yours, I should think that's what matters."

"You would. You went after your brother's best mate, too." Harry smirked.

The cushion Ginny threw caught him full in the face, a second before the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it - don't you dare touch it!" Lily yelled, her footsteps echoing as she ran down the steps.

Harry and Ginny both stood up as Lily walked into the room, pulling a nervous looking Scorpius by the hand.

"These are the 'rents." Lily said to Scorpius, almost smirking at his discomfort. Turning to her parents, her expression turned challenging. "This is Scorpius."

Cue awkward silence.

Lily did what she often did when unsure of herself. She looked at her mother with a pleading expression.

"Anyone want a cup of tea?" Ginny said loudly, standing. "Or coffee? Scorpius?"

"I'm, um, OK, thank you."

"I'll have one." Harry said absently.

"Well, I'll just put the kettle on, then." Ginny said, walking from the room.

In the kitchen, she couldn't help but laugh.

"So...where are you two planning to go tonight?" Harry asked. Scorpius shifted uncomfortably.

"Ah, we were just going to go to this muggle place." Scorpius said finally. "Restaurant, I mean. Um...we won't be back late or anything."

"Good. That's good, since Lily's only fifteen." Harry said pointedly.

"Dad! He knows how old I am for goodness' sake!"

"I, um, I'll have her back early." Scorpius said, simply because he could think of nothing else. "We'll only be a couple of hours..." He cleared his throat, and prayed for someone else to speak. When no one did, he felt the rambling start.

"I do know how old she is. Lily, I mean." Scorpius said. Some part of his mind cried, horrified, stop talking NOW!

But he could never stop the nervous rambling.

"And I know I'm older. I realise that might be hard for you, make you worry and stuff. But she'll perfectly safe with me, honestly. And it's only two years – less, I think, is you add the months up – I'm not sure, I haven't worked it out but I can, now, if you give me a minute -"

"Scorpius." Lily said, her voice both firm and amused.

Scorpius' voice died out and his face turned faintly pink. It was a battle to stop himself counting up the months between him and Lily so he could blurt them out.

Ginny chose the moment to come in, carrying two cups, one of which she passed to Harry.

"So, Scorpius." Ginny said brightly. "Last year, huh? Nervous about leaving?"

"Terrified." Scorpius nodded, forcing a smile. "Were you scared on your last year?"

Ginny's smile faded for a fraction of a second before she dragged it back on. "Actually, I never finished. I never went back after the war."

"Oh." Scorpius' colour deepened. "Of course. I don't blame you. I mean..."

"Maybe we should just go now." Lily said finally.

"Yes." Scorpius said, quickly and enthusiastically. "I mean, uh, sure...Let's do that..."

The second the door closed behind them, Ginny burst out laughing again.

"Bless the poor kid – he looked terrified. And I think you managed to humiliate Lily, too..."

"Uh-huh." Harry said, watching from the window as they walked down the path.

"Well? What did you think?"

Harry turned back to her. "I think he was appropriately petrified of me, polite enough, and he seems crazy about her."

"He does, doesn't he?"

"But I'll reserve judgement for now."

-----------

"You were absolutely terrified – admit it!" Lily laughed as they walked down the street.

"I was not!"

"Yes you were. It was hilarious."

"Joke's on you, babe." Scorpius said, throwing his arm around Lily's waist. "You're meeting my parents next week..."


	75. Blood

**I'd planned to do Lily meeting the Malfoys next, as a follow-up to the last chapter, but then I just started writing this. The Malfoy meeting should be up next, though, I've got about half of it written. As for this, more pointless ramblings. It takes place during the seventh book.**

**And, I know this is going to sound weird, but I've been seeing the time 11:11 a lot over the last couple of months, and I wondering if that's supposed to mean anything?**

**75. Blood**

He dreamed of blood.

She was on the ground, the front of her robes darkened and soaked. Blood blended with the black material, so that its crimson colour wasn't noticeable, until he touched his fingertips to it.

They came away stained red.

"No." He whispered it, and her eyes opened, seemingly in response to the sound. She was pale, far too pale, and her eyes seemed dulled. He touched her face, and bile rose in his throat when his fingers left her own blood on her skin, the scarlet contrasting with the white.

Horrified, he stared at his hand, then back at her. The violence of it, the pain of it, got to him. He put his hand back over the blood, where it was still spreading, pooling around her now, staining the ground, too.

"How do I stop the bleeding?" He asked her. "Please – I don't know how to make it stop..." He pressed his hand to the wound, then the other, trying to keep the blood inside her by sheer force.

"Can't." She murmured. "You can't." She raised her own hand, touched it to his face. "Dying..."

"No!" He snapped it out, his voice like a whip. "I can make it stop, you'll be OK."

If he could stop the blood, if he could only stop the blood...

It was running over his hands, now, coating them thickly. It had seeped onto his knees, but he didn't notice. All he saw was the blood on his hands.

"Say goodbye." She whispered. Her hand was still on his face. "Please, say goodbye..."

"I can't." The words choked him. "Don't make me." He abandoned the wound, lifted his hands to hers, took it from his face and clutched it. "Don't make me..."

Her hand, as white as snow, was instantly coloured with her blood. Looking down, he couldn't tell which was hers, which were his.

"I love you." She told him, looking at his with those dulled eyes. "Should've told you, before..."

"Stop it. Stop it – you're not – you won't -" He moved his hand back to her face, gently touching the skin. It bloodied more, but he was now past caring.

The blood was no longer his biggest worry. She was saying goodbye, her eyes were faded, and so the blood meant nothing, now.

"I can't lose you. Don't you understand that?"

She was clinging to his hand, the one she still held, then she released it, gripped the front of his robes. "Tell me – say it. I need to hear you say it. Please."

He was crying, but he didn't care. The hand she'd released went to the other side of her face, marking it with more blood. "I love you. I love you."

She trailed her fingertips down his face, leaving a trail of blood there, too. He could feel the sticky dampness.

He could hear his heartbeat – hear hers? – and thought bitterly that her heart was beating, forcing the blood out of the open wound. Beating to keep her alive, and killing her as it did so.

She was still tracing his face and neck, and he began to stroke her hair. Some part of him knew – even as the rest of him rejected it – that this was goodbye, the end.

"I love you." He said again.

"I know. I know." Her hand dropped heavily to the ground. As her eyes met his, something flickered and left them.

His hands came up, and he buried his face in them. Blood, blood everywhere, on him, on her, he could feel it and smell it and taste it.

And she was dead.

He woke with tears on his face, confused and breathing heavily. He wasn't in a cold forest, but inside the tent. He wasn't knelt on the solid, bloodstained floor, but curled in his bunk.

Across the room, Hermione was breathing.

He relaxed, stared into the darkness, and tried to forget the image of her, bloodied and dead.

Across the tent, Hermione laid awake in the darkness, listening to Ron's laboured breathing, and wondered if he'd dreamt as badly as she had.

She'd dreamt of blood. And of death.


	76. Bruised and Bloodied

**Random moment. Sort of connected to my one-shot Count On It, but an independent read. I like this pairing more everytime I write it, so expect more in the future.**

**Warning for the swear, I know some people are offended by it, so I'll warn you there's one in there.**

**76. Bruised and Bloodied**

His lip was bleeding. Lorcan scarcely noticed it, carelessly brushing away the blood with the back of his hand. He was still angry, still hurt, and it felt as though his bones were quivering. He stalked down the corridor with no idea where he was, or where he was going.

And almost walked into Rose Weasley. She was walking out of the library – and why had he headed towards the library in the first place? – and only just managed to step away, avoiding the collision he'd have caused.

"Watch – Lorcan." Rose's voice was warm with greeting, a smile already on her face, when she looked properly at his face. The smile faded; her voice filled with concern. "Are you OK? What's happened?"

"Nothing." Mortified, he swiped at the blood again. It left a mark on his hand, a faded crimson. "I'll catch you later, Rose."

He tried to walk past her; she grabbed his arm.

"Wait. Lorcan, who hit you?" Her voice was loud enough to have a near-by first year look over, and Lorcan felt his face colour in embarrassment.

"_No one._" He hissed, and wrenched his arm away. He glared at the first year until she looked away, then turned the glare onto Rose. "For fuck's sake, Rose."

She actually jerked a little, stunned. He was young enough to feel mature when he swore; and old enough to realised he'd hurt her. He'd sworn in front of Rose countless times. But he couldn't ever remember swearing at her, not with such anger.

He stormed past her, and was already around the corner before she moved, quickly catching up with him.

"You're obviously angry." She said carefully, keeping up with his pace.

"Well done, detective." He replied flatly.

"And you've clearly been fighting recently, so I'm guessing that's what's bothering you."

"You're on fire today."

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

"No. Just let it go, Rose. Leave me alone." He stopped abrupty, and swerved into an empty room. Some kind of storage room, he guessed, and wondered whereabouts exactly he was in the castle. Uncaring, he stalked to the window. Only when he heard the door close did he realise she'd followed him.

"I'm not leaving, so don't even start. Who hit you?"

He didn't bother to turn to face her, but continued staring out of the window. It was raining.

"Lysander." He said it tonelessly, but a smile twisted his mouth when he heard her quick intake of breath.

"_Why_?"

"I hit him first." Lorcan shrugged, finally turning to her. She looked just as stunned as when he'd swore at her.

"I hate to repeat myself," she said primly, "but _why_?" He brushed the blood from his lip again.

"We were arguing. We started hitting each other. Don't tell me you and Hugo never descended into violence?"

"Of course we did. But not at fifteen. What were you fighting over?"

"I...We just were. Just one of those things. You know how it goes; you start bickering, you start really arguing, you get really mad and..."

"Whack him?"

"Yeah." Lorcan hunched his shoulders. "I didn't hit him hard. The first time."

"You hit him more than once?"

"I had to hit him back. After he, ah, hit _me_ back."

"Let me guess. You kept hitting each other until someone pulled you apart?"

"Uh, yeah. Your Hugo, actually."

"Hugo pulled you both apart, then let you go storming off like that? I thought he was supposed to be one of your best friends?"

Lorcan looked at the floor. "He is. He's also one of Zander's best friends, and, um...Well, Zander was a bit more banged up than me."

"_Lorcan._" He winced at the tone – it was far too like a mother's.

"Just a bit!" He replied defensively. "He might have a bit of bruising around his eye -"

"That'd be a black eye, then." Rose said mildly.

"And maybe his nose was bleeding a little - or a lot -"

"And maybe you broke it."

"But that's all, really. And it's not my fault I'm better at it than him, is it?"

"Oh, no, of course not. Why would it be your fault your brother's out there, bruised and bloodied?"

"I'm bruised and bloodied, too." Lorcan replied in annoyance. "Don't say it like that. God, you're so _grown up_. What happened to you? You used to be cool." He barely hid the smirk when her mouth dropped open.

"I'm still –" Rose broke off halfway through the defensive statement and grinned. "Nice try. Nearly got me. Now back to you. How are you feeling?"

"Feeling?" He repeated. When she nodded, he shrugged awkwardly. "Um...bruised?" He swiped at the blood on his lip again, noted it had nearly stopped. "I'm fine. Go check on Zander if you're that bothered."

"Lorcan."

"Jeez. OK, OK. My ribs hurt – I'm not sure how, but they do – my lip is killing me, I think my cheekbone is gonna bruise. Other than that, I'm great." When she only looked at him, he raised the back of his hand to his lip again. It was fast becoming a nervous gesture. "My bones have stopped shaking; the worst of the anger's gone."

"The adrenaline's gone." Rose nodded. "How upset are you?"

"I'm not upset."He said automatically, causing her to roll her eyes.

"I happen to know that this is the fourth fight you and Zander have had this past fortnight. Granted, this is the first time it go physical, but I know that last time wands came out."

"Prefects got there before we used them." Lorcan muttered.

"What's going on with you two?" Rose asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know." He went to swipe the blood again, only to find there was none. "We just keep...arguing. Every time we're together." And it bothered him, a lot.

"You've always argued a lot." Rose nodded. "But usually you get on well the rest of the time. I've been told you guys aren't talking at all in between arguments."

He looked up, met her gaze and tilted his head. "Are you sending spies after me, or something?"

"Of course not." Rose replied. "Everyone knows we're practically family. You're my brother's best friend. I'm head girl. These things get back to me."

He couldn't have explained why the phrase "practically family" annoyed him. But it did. "Well. We'll work it out. Probably."

"Lorcan, he's your brother. You can't just say it'll probably work out and ignore him. Doesn't he matter to you?"

"Of course he does." Lorcan snapped. "We're just different, OK? We look alike, a lot, but that's it – we're completely different. You can't expect us to be the same just because we're family and -"

He broke off, partly because he'd realised he was taking his anger out on her, partly because he was rapidly descending from anger into upset. He closed his mouth, swallowed.

"Are you OK?" She asked gently.

"I'm fine. I told you."

"You look upset."

"I'm not upset. I had a stupid argument with my brother. It's over. It's fine." He snapped it, painfully aware that his voice wavered.

"Lorcan...if you want to cry -"

"Cry? I'm not going to _cry_. Jeez, Rose, what do you think I am?"

She rolled her eyes, smiled. "A boy. So of course you can't admit it." She flicked a glance at her watch. "Come on. Let's go get something to eat."

He swallowed again, finally steady, and nodded. He stood, crossed to her, and slung an arm around her shoulders. Despite their three-year age gap, he was as tall as she.

"Thanks. For, you know." He said as they left the room.

"Don't mention it. And you _were _close to tears in there."

"I was _not_!"

They were both grinning as they walked down the corridor.


	77. Innocence and Hope

**More ramblings, but I can't work on Ten Little Things or The Sorting for some reason. Wrote this yesterday, and was in a weird mood after reading yet more about the whole Baby P thing. I haven't even been able to read the whole story, but anyone who's heard anything about it will know how heartbreaking it is. It has to be the worst news story I've ever read, really. Right, away from that before I depress myself. **

**77. Innocence and Hope**

He was so tiny. That was all Ginny Weasley could think. So tiny, so fragile, so _breakable._ There was a part of her that wanted to pick him up, cling to him, shield him from the world and all its horrors. And a part of her that wanted to stay away from him, to never touch him, because what if she hurt him?

He was smiling. So bright and happy, his eyes lit up. Blue-grey and big, they held nothing but innocence.

She took a step back. The urge to hold and protect was overcome by the urge to stay away, to protect the child from herself.

It was only a day ago, after all, that Ginny had been in a battle, a horrific battle. Only a day ago that she'd sent curses and jinxes at people. Since she'd had them sent at her. She still bore bruises and cuts. Her eyes were still shadowed, with grief and exhaustion and horror. She still couldn't believe it was over, couldn't believe everything she'd lost.

And this, this baby, was the essence of all things good and pure. Her touch, her battle-stained touch might destroy all that fragile innocence.

She couldn't touch him.

Instead she observed as Harry lifted him, slowly, nervous, watched by an anxious Hermione – who hovered, as though to catch the baby if he were to drop him – and Ron, who was keeping his own distance. Cradling the baby in his arms, Harry stared at him. There was awkwardness, in the way he held him. Nerves. But also wonder and amazement and...and hope, Ginny realised. Teddy Lupin was hope, to Harry. The future. The symbol that good things could happen, could survive.

Survive. Everything was about survival. It had been, for the last year or so, about survival. Getting through the day, and the next, and the next. And it would be that way for a while yet, she knew.

Harry murmured to the baby for a while, words so quiet no one could hear them; words so private no one tried. Eventually, Hermione made Harry set Teddy down again, so she could pick him up. Ginny was thankful they did it the long way – passing such a small, fragile creature from one person to another was far too complex a manoeuvre. Hermione, too, murmured to Teddy, her words less intense, her voice lighter. Her stance was less awkward than Harry's had been; but her expression was much the same.

And then Hermione turned to her. "Do you want to hold him?"

Ginny felt her eyes widen, and took another step back without thinking about it. She hit the wall, shook her head.

Hermione studied her for a moment, then smiled softly. "You won't hurt him. Come on." Hermione set him down again in his cot, and strode over to take Ginny's wrist, pull her forward.

"Really – I'll hold him next time – or when – when he's a big bigger..." She looked down at him, nervous when his smile faded.

"Just pick him up. Go on." Hermione urged. Then, much quieter, added, "it'll help. Believe me, Ginny, it'll help."

Ginny hesitated, then nodded. Slowly, painstakingly, she slipped her hands beneath Teddy's small, warm body, lifted him, shifting her weight to support him. Holding him close to her, she looked down. He wasn't smiling, but looking up at her intently.

The urge to run away had faded. Instead, the protectiveness had taken over, so that she held him closer, trying to cover as much of him as possible with her arms. Turning away from the others, she looked at him. For a long time, she was silent, and then words were in her mind, words she had to say.

"Hi." She whispered it, knowing no one but the baby would hear. "Things kinda suck for you, don't they kid? You don't know it yet, but...I'm sorry about that. They were my friends, your parents, and I'm really sorry they're gone. You don't have to worry about being alone, though, OK? We'll always be here, me and them guys. And the rest of my family." She paused then, because she knew one member of her family _wouldn't_ be there. "I know it's not the same. But you'll be OK, Teddy." She took a deep, steadying breath. "We all will."

Eventually she had to let her brother hold the baby – which was both amusing and terrifying to watch – and they had to leave him, alone with his grandmother. The broken remnants of a family, Ginny thought as she kissed the baby goodbye. So many families had been broken by the war, her own included.

But she trailed a finger down the baby's face, and refused to think about the horrors she'd seen, done, felt. This fragile future, this innocence and hope, they were all she would think about, for now at least.


	78. Parents II

**I meant to get this up ages ago, and actually started it right after posting Scorpius meeting Harry and Ginny. And then I guess I got caught up with other stuff, and I've only just got round to finishing it. Long for a Jigsaw Piece, but this is where it belongs. A little over-dramatic, I think, but...well...**

**78. Parents II**

He was talking to himself again.

"We can manage this. We can get through this. Everything will be fine, nothing bad will happen."

It seemed unfair, really, that he was here again, talking to himself and drowning in nerves. Surely it should be Lily doing it this time round?

"They'll be no drama, no big scene...nothing bad will happen..."

"Scorpius?"

He felt the blood rush to his face as his father's voice interrupted his mutterings; turning to the doorway, Scorpius wished he'd closed the door.

"Um, hi, yeah, what's up?" He said it quickly, almost defensively, mortified at being caught talking to himself.

"Is everything OK?"

"God I hope so." Scorpius murmured. "I, ah, yeah. Everything's fine." The "hopefully" was silent, but no less on the end of the sentence.

"Right. Well, your mother said they'll be here soon, and you ought to be in the library to meet them."

"Oh. Yeah. OK."

"You're really nervous about tonight, aren't you?" Draco asked, his amusement carefully hidden.

"Are you joking? I'm terrified. I really want this to go well, dad. Promise me you won't..."

"Won't what?" Draco asked, his eyebrows raised.

"You know what I mean. I know she's the daughter of your old enemy, but -"

"But I'm not a schoolboy anymore. I promise I won't..." Draco trailed his sentence off the same way Scorpius had done. "You like this one, don't you?"

"I really do. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't drive her away."

"Would I do something like that?"

"Ha. You already have – remember Abigail?"

It took only a moment, and Draco smirked sheepishly. "It was sort of an accident. She was over-sensitive."

"Dad, you told her the only reason I was with her was to wind up my Grandfather."

"It was true, wasn't it?"

"No! Her being a half-blood was just a bonus...And there was no need to make her cry."

"I never meant for her to cry. And I promise I won't say a thing about Lily, or her blood status."

Though Scorpius looked at him uncertainly, Draco flashed a grin, then turned and exited in the room.

And on the stairs he toyed with his sleeves uncomfortably. Of course the boy would fall for Potter's daughter. Of _course._

-------

Why had she agreed to this? Why? She knew it was a bad idea, even as she'd said yes. It was just the snow, and the present, and the romance of it all. It was like a fairytale, appealing to her dormant little-girl side, and she couldn't help it.

So now she was fussing with her hair, so nervous she felt almost close to tears – _tears_ the insult of it all – and preparing to go to a party at the Malfoys' house.

Though house was a pathetic understatement, according to Teddy.

Another factor was that Teddy would also be there. Teddy and Victoire and Andromeda. And so the I-won't-know-anyone-there excuse had lost all validity. As had the you-only-met-my-parents-I-can't-meet-all-you-family-and-their-friends one, since Scorpius had met most of her cousins, both her brothers, was a close friend of both Albus and Rose, and was related to Teddy.

So here she was. Committed and everything.

"Hey, Titch. You nearly done with the girl stuff?" Teddy asked from the doorway. Turning to him, Lily met his gaze nervously.

"I don't think this is a good idea. I don't think I should go. I'll just meet his parents some other time – next holidays...or in another few years..."

"Years, huh? He's still gonna be around in a few years?" Teddy asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

Lily cleared her throat, then a smile crept onto her face. "I think he just might be. That OK with you?"

Teddy paused and considered. Lily was the closest thing he had to a sister. One of the most important people to him in the world.

"Yep. That's fine with me."

But he'd have to break Scorpius' legs if Lily came out of this hurt.

"Now it's time to leave. No excuses – come on."

--------

Victoire came out of the fire first. She stumbled, the clumsy movement contrasting with her graceful looks. Smiling awkwardly, Scorpius steadied her.

"Hi. Uh, welcome, and stuff."

Victoire laughed. "I bet that's not how your mother taught you to greet guests, huh? Lily should be out in a sec," Victoire told him, pulling him away from the fireplace. "She's a bit nervous."

"She's not the only one."

Lily almost fell out of the fireplace, and met his gaze with a nervous grin as she straightened herself up.

"Hi."

"Hey. You're not planning to run out on me, are you?"

"Not this second. Is anyone else here?"

"The family." Scorpius said, almost smirking at the expression of absolute terror on her face. "No one else is here yet, though."

He greeted Teddy, who stepped out of the fire next, and then Andromeda, before leading everyone into the ballroom.

Ballroom, Lily thought nervously. The house had far too many rooms.

His parents, both sets of grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins were all present, and all stood together. Of course. She wished they'd been later, got here when it was crowded and no one would notice her.

Lily suppressed the urge to run, and let Scorpius lead her and the rest to his family. Narcissa and Andromeda exchanged greetings, and the former kissed both Teddy and Victoire on the cheek. Then she turned to Lily.

"Um, hi. Hello." Lily said, fighting a wince. Should she have been more formal?

"Nice to meet you." Narcissa said with a knowing smile. Despite it – the smile – her expression and eyes were still cool; it was clear that she was reserving judgement on whether or not Lily was good enough for her grandson.

"Scorpius." His aunt's voice was half-amused. "Aren't you going to introduce properly?"

"Oh. Sure. Um, everyone, this is Lily. Everyone, uh, knows Andromeda and Teddy and Victoire, right? Yeah. Uh, Lily, this is my mum, my dad, my grandparents, my aunt, my uncle, and my cousins..."

Even as he watched her, something changed. Her expression, her eyes, seemed to close, and though she smiled, there was nothing in it. He watched greetings being exchanged, everyone perfectly polite.

"Excuse us." He said politely. "Come on, Lily, let's get something to drink." He took her hand, led her over to the drinks table. "What's wrong?" He asked quietly, studying her closely.

"Nothing." She murmured. "I...I should go. I shouldn't be here." A small, humourless laugh escaped her. "What were we thinking?" Turning, she strode out of a set of glass doors, into the fresh air, onto a small, neat, patio.

And kept walking.

"Lily! Wait -" She could hear him running, and stopped, sure that she owed him that. Turning, she waited for him to reach her. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry." She said it softly, hardly able to meet his gaze. "You were right – all those months ago – remember, when we first got together? You said that it would never work, that we wouldn't fit in each other's worlds...people like us were never meant to be together."

"I was wrong. We established that minutes later, if you remember. We _do_ work, we _are_ meant to be together -"

"We don't fit in each other's worlds, though." The bitter trace to her voice worried him. "Look around you. You have this enormous, amazing house. With a _ballroom_ for fuck's sake. You have, despite it all, money and status. The purest blood line in the wizarding world -" She added sarcastically.

"You think that matters?" He grabbed her arm, almost hard enough to hurt. "You think I care how pure my blood is, or yours? How can you say that to me?"

"You might not care, but they do. Those in there. Your grandparents...My grandmother, my dad's mum, she was muggle-born. And it matters to them. That matters, and so does the Weasley in me. Blood traitors, remember? It was all over their faces. I'll never be good enough for you." She wrenched her arm away, spun, took several steps away from him. "My family has money. My mother, they hardly had anything when she was a kid, and she'll never forget that. Never forget your roots, she once said to me. No matter how far you go, never forget. We have money now. We have a decent house. We even have status." Another laugh. "Fame and fortune, you might say. But I'll never be like you, with the old name, the old money, the pristine blood-line -"

"Blood means _nothing_ – you know that -"

"Not to me, not to you, not to most people." She turned to face him. "But to some...to them...I'll never fit in there, with the extravagant parties and – and all of that. I don't _belong_, Scorpius. We don't belong. Five minutes with your family and I can't even breathe. If I hadn't have walked they'd have probably thrown me out."

"That's not true! Damn it, you know it's not true. I get that you were uncomfortable in there, that you felt awkward. I get that you don't feel as though you fit – half the time I feel the same way. But you can_not_ run out on me, on us, because of that. You are not that person."

She shook her head. "I'll never be good enough for you."

"You already are." He said softly. He thought, just for a moment, he saw tears glimmer in her eyes.

"Maybe. But I'll never be good enough for them. For your world. I'm sorry."

"Stop it. Stop saying that." He closed the distance between them in three steps. "That's not fair to you, to me, or to them."

"Scorpius, it's over. You know it's over." She was shaking, just a little, when he put his hands on her arms.

"No it isn't. Not when neither of us want it to be. I'm not going to stand out here, going round in circles, Lily, because you're scared of my family. I was scared of yours, too. And if I, the Slytherin, can cope with it, then you, the Gryffindor, must be able to, too."

"It's not that simple. Don't – don't simplify my feelings like that." She snapped. "Yes, I'm scared of them. I'm scared that you're going to turn around, see me in there with them and realise that I'm not good enough -"

"Stop saying that!"

"That I don't fit with them, with you. I'm scared you'll see that, and you'll end it."

"So you're ending it first?" He said, disgusted. "You decide, now, if I'm worth anything to you – if...whatever it is between us is enough to make you walk back into that room."

He dropped his arms, stepped back. "You know exactly what could happen here, if you stopped being so scared and insecure. It doesn't matter what they think." He took another step backwards. "If you can't walk back in there tonight, then fine. It's over. For good. You just let me know when you figure out exactly where we stand." He added bitterly.

It hurt his pride, and more, to turn and walk back into the ballroom, but he did it anyway.

She stood where she was, trying to steady her breathing. She had to leave, now. Had to find a different way into the house, find a fireplace, get home. She couldn't stay here.

"Try counting." The voice made her head snap up so fast it hurt; and Lily found herself looking at Scorpius's mother, who was stepping through the doors.

"I..." Lily flushed.

"Breathe in, count to three, breathe out, count to three." Astoria walked closer, stopped before her. "You hurt him."

"I know." Lily whispered. "I didn't mean to. I...I'm sorry. Did you hear...everything?"

"Most of it, I think. You were unfair, to yourself and to us."

Lily shook her head. "Maybe. Maybe some of it. But I was right, at least, about not belonging in there. I can't fit in to this sort of stuff, can't be all gracious and – and upper class – I'll never be the sort of person he can take to these things, the sort of person he needs. It's better that we know that now, rather than...when things are too..."

"You probably don't fit into this sort of thing." Astoria nodded. "Neither does he."

"He's grown up with all this, been trained how to behave and talk and _stand_, so that everyone sees him as perfect and...No offence."

"But he doesn't fit. He hides it well enough, mostly. But there's the same awkwardness there that I always had. He hates this sort of thing, avoids them as much as he can."

"Always be a part of his life, though."

"And you can't accept that?" Astoria asked carefully. "This small part of life, this one small thing you'd have to do occasionally – you can't accept it?"

"I..."

"Lily, let me ask you something. How much does Scorpius matter to you?"

Lily blew out a breath and was finally honest with herself. "A lot. Too much. So much it scares me."

Astoria nodded. "Then why are you out here?"

It took Lily only a moment; then she nodded, took a deep breath and strode forward, muttering "Thanks" to Astoria as she passed her.

Inside, she walked directly over to Scorpius. There were more people now, and it was easier to breathe, easier to tell herself she didn't care what these people thought.

"Hi." She said, appearing at his side.

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once. Later, they'd talk, he decided. Work out exactly what was going on here, exactly what was going to happen. But for now...

"Hi." He replied, and smiled as he slipped an arm around her waist.


	79. Family

**An idea I had for a while, and decided to write down properly after writing my Ten Little Things chapter for the Weasleys.**

**79. Family**

He didn't even know how to start. George rubbed a hand down his face, and wondered how exactly to bring up the subject, how to explain.

But he needed to do it. Almost two months had passed now, and George knew he had to get it done, get it out of the way. The shop was open, running, successful. Profits were slowly climbing, now that people were getting back to normal, trying to go about their lives. Ron was working with him. And it was time he told them.

He entered the kitchen, took a moment to just watch them. His mother was cooking, of course. It made him smile, just a little, to see her doing so, busily dealing with the food as she gave Charlie and Percy jobs to do. Ron and Hermione sat side by side at the table, murmuring quietly to one another. Fleur and Ginny were collecting cutlery and plates, while Bill filled glasses with drinks. His father and Harry were also at the table, deep in conversation.

Taking a deep breath, George cleared his throat. The room descended into silence; all gazes flicked to him. Concern, apprehension, uncertainty, he noted. His moods had been unpredictable lately, he knew, and understood their wariness.

"Can I, uh, talk to everyone, for a minute?" He asked awkwardly, still frantically trying to decide how to start.

"Of course." His mother said instantly.

"Would you, um, sit down? All of you? It'll only take a few minutes." He watched as those who were standing joined the others at the table. He walked over slowly, and stood before them, leaning against a wall. He needed to see them all, he realised. He couldn't sit with them, not yet, because he needed to see them. "It's about the shop."

"Is everything alright there?" His father asked instantly. "If you're having trouble -"

"Everything's going great." He said quickly. "Amazingly. Ask Ron." No one did, though, or even looked at the youngest brother. All eyes remained on him, waiting. "Um, Fred and I," He began, and didn't recognise a vague flicker of pride that he'd managed to speak the name, "we both owned fifty per cent of the store. Obviously. Of the, um, the whole thing. And we decided, right before we went into hiding, than, ah, if anything happened to either of us..." His voice broke just a little. His gaze flicked to his mother, then his father. Both looked back at him.

"George..." Bill said carefully, and George shook his head.

"Let me finish. We decided that our share, that is, whoever...you know. The share would be divided, between the family."

He saw, because he was watching, Hermione reach for Ron's hand, cover it. He saw his mother's eyes fill with tears, saw his father hands shake for a moment before he steadied them. He saw Percy look down at the table, saw Bill and Charlie exchange glances, saw Fleur bite her lip and look around everyone, and saw Harry look at Ginny, who was still staring back at himself.

"So. Um, you each get five per cent. I know it's not a lot, but, well, the profits...It's something."

"Money doesn't matter." His mother said softly. "The amount's not important. It's a lovely thought."

"Yeah." George cleared his throat again, uncomfortable. "Um, there's nothing for any of you to do. Your share of the profits will automatically go into your vaults. We took care of the paperwork. You might have to sign something – I don't know. I'll find out. I...I just thought you'd want to know."

"It's not right." Percy's voice, thin and shaky, broke the silence. George looked back at him, in confusion. "I...I shouldn't get anything. I wasn't even there when you...I don't want any. You have it. Keep it. Or – or mum and dad -"

"Percy," George interrupted firmly, "we decided. The both of us, together, decided this was how it would be. Even though you acted like such an idiot, you were still family, and we still...We still decided you'd get your share."

"But I don't deserve -"

"I don't care what you think you deserve!" George shouted it, his voice whipping out and echoing before he realised he was angry. Taking several deep breaths to steady himself, he fixed his gaze on his brother's eyes. "This is what we wanted – what he wanted. His share is divided between the family, OK? Whether you think you deserve it or not, whether you want it or not, every person at this table gets five per cent."

"Every person?" Hermione repeated instantly, looking at him in confusion.

"Yes." George said, realising for the first time that he might not have been clear. "That includes you, yes. And Harry, and Fleur." He glared at each of them in turn, daring them to protest. It was, of course, Hermione who did.

"But George, we...It should stay in the family. It's your store, your _dream_. Every bit of it needs to stay in the family."

He shot her a smile. She was so serious, so anxious, he noticed, her gaze flicking between him and the others. "It is. Whether you like it or not, Hermione, you're part of the family. You're stuck with us."

She looked stunned, and for a moment just looked at him, while his smile spread. "Are you – are you sure about this?" She asked him. And when he nodded, she smiled back.

"Anymore arguments?" He asked, one eyebrow raised. And the tension vanished. There was laughter, talking, normal, family stuff. And if it hurt, just a little, that he'd just had to share out his brother's half of their business, he would think about it. With a smile, George looked at his mother.

"Need any help with dinner, then?"

Remembering the half-cooked meal, Molly surged to her feet, rushed to the oven. The others jumped up too, returned to their jobs, while Hermione rose and asked if Molly needed help. George laughed, just a little, and strode forward, took a seat, and looked around at them all.

They weren't complete anymore. Never would be again, really. But even so, George decided, as far as families go, he had a pretty good deal.


	80. Engagement

**Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year. A nice long Jigsaw Piece, though I think some of it's just rambling. Still, ramblings are fun. Just for anyone who doesn't know, Lydia is Neville's youngest daughter (made up be me), and Lorcan is Luna's son (as stated by JKR). Teddy's kids are also made up by me.**

**80. Engagement**

She thought they must be crazy. She wasn't yet nineteen, was just months out of Hogwarts. They'd fallen in love, quickly and deeply, and a part of her wondered if that was only because it had seemed so forbidden, only because the whole of Hogwarts had been so shocked, only because of the drama of telling their parents.

Certainly, their bond had been strengthened by everyone's conviction that their relationship would fall apart at the first hurdle. A Malfoy and a Potter couldn't possibly work. It was just that Malfoy boy winding his father and fellow Slytherins up, just that Potter girl trying to bring some drama into her life.

But it hadn't been that at all. Lily and Scorpius hadn't got together to annoy people, to amuse themselves with some drama. In actuality, they'd attempted to stay away from each other, in the beginning, and then decided there was no real reason to keep fighting it.

So a part of her wondered, as they walked slowly up the path to the Burrow, if they were only deluding themselves into believing they had real love, the kind that lasted, that a life could be built on, if they were only together because of all the things that had tried to push them apart.

And then she glanced sideways at him and knew that that part of her was wrong. She loved him, with all her heart, and, crazy or not, eighteen and a few months out of Hogwarts, she was going to marry him.

It filled her with both fear and excitement.

Neither bothered to knock on the door of the Burrow, simply walked round the back and through the door into the kitchen. It was crowded, warm and light and filled with laughter and voices. Her family, Lily thought proudly, feeling giddy and sentimental. Her family, some blood, some honorary, and she loved each and every one of them.

"Lily, there you are." Molly Weasley, the same as always apart from the grey hair and the lines scattered around her face, cut her way through the crowd with ease and stopped in front of her youngest granddaughter, and the boy she'd already accepted into her family. "Is everything alright, dear?"

"Grandma, I told you, it's nothing _bad_." Lily said, rolling her eyes.

"I know you did, but you've never asked me to arrange a family meeting before – and at such short notice, too. I did wonder if you just didn't want to worry me..."

"I tried to tell her." Hugo's voice came from somewhere across the room, but Lily couldn't see past her other cousins to him.

"Grandma, like I told you in the fire, I have...news. And it's a lot easier to just get the family together and say it once than travelling the country and repeating myself half a million times." Lily didn't bother to pretend to be exasperated by her grandmother; it was, as always, nice to know that someone was worrying about you. "Is everyone here?"

"Yes, yes, they're all around. It's lucky your Uncle Charlie was visiting. I suppose you want me to get them into one room, don't you?" Molly sighed, unconvincingly. Ordering her family about was something she enjoyed, and seeing them all crowded together always pleased her.

"It would be easier." Scorpius nodded.

"Well, yes." Molly nodded. "Give me a moment, then." She moved through the crowd again, and into the sitting room.

"Lily," Scorpius said quietly, so none of the family would hear, "my parents will be here any second."

"I know. It might be best if you ran back round the front and waited for them." Lily refused to worry about having Draco and Astoria Malfoy in the Burrow. "I don't think your father will appreciate knocking on the front door."

"OK. Back in a minute." He flashed a grin. "Don't tell them without me."

He slipped out through the crowd.

"Come on then." Lydia Longbottom, Lily's best girlfriend and honorary Weasley, murmured from right beside her. "What is it?"

"You'll have to wait and see." Lily smiled.

"You look really, deliriously happy." Lydia said. "Not pregnant, are you?"

"Nope." Lily replied brightly, and couldn't help wondering if she might be announcing that in another couple of years.

"Hmm." Lydia was, at that moment, knocked sideways by Lorcan, who smirked and pointed at Rose.

"She pushed me."

"I did not." Rose replied indignantly. She had Teddy and Victoire's four year old daughter, Adelaide, on her hip. "Lies, all lies. So, Lily, what's up? Hugo said he didn't know."

"He doesn't. We're telling everyone at the same time. Scorpius' parents are on their way." She didn't quite manage to keep the nerves from her voice.

"Excuse me? Draco Malfoy, here?" From somewhere to Lily's left, Fred Weasley whistled softly. "This'll be fun."

"Not a word, to either of them." Lily warned swiftly. "Seriously. No trouble."

"Jeez, you make me sound like some kind of – of mobster or something." Fred said, sounding more amused than insulted. "I won't say a word, kid."

Lily rolled her eyes and wondered if he'd still call her kid when she was married.

Married. Her. She didn't know what amazed her more; the fact that she engaged, or the fact that she was deliriously happy about it.

"Where's my mum and dad? And James and Al?" Lily asked, scanning the crowd. "They need to be over here..." Where I can see their faces, Lily added silently.

"There." Her Uncle George replied, pointing. "Hey, Ginny! Your daughter wants you over here!"

Ginny flashed her youngest a nervous smile as she pulled Harry through the crowd. James and Al soon followed. As Molly herded the rest of the family into the kitchen, which didn't look like it would accommodate them all, Lily searched out Teddy in the crowd, happy to see him moving towards her parents and brothers. His eldest, Dora, six, had her hand in his, and his youngest daughter, Juno, two, was balanced on his hip. Trailing behind him was Victoire, their youngest child and only son, Cáel, cradled in her arms, just four months old. She watched Teddy's eyes scan the crowd, spot his other daughter, still on Rose's hip, and relax.

As the family squashed themselves into corners, jumped up to sit on work tops, and crowded around the table, Lily nervously tried to find a place to stand where she could see them all, and listened out for Scorpius coming back.

Hugo stood with Lysander, Lorcan's brother, just a little way away from her parents and brothers. With Lydia stood with Lorcan and Rose, right beside her, Lily gauged that she could, at least, see the immediate reactions of those closest to her.

Silence fell slowly, and gradually, until, finally, the back door opened again and Scorpius entered, his parents looking awkward behind him.

A murmur ran around the crowd, though thankfully everyone was quiet. Lily closed her eyes for a moment and hoped no fights would break out. Scorpius' parents had been to family events before – or, at least, to Teddy's birthday parties. But it was still awkward to have them in the Burrow.

"Here, stand here." Scorpius said nervously, pushing his parents towards Teddy, who they knew quite well and would feel most comfortable with.

"I think they're ready." Lily murmured to him, as he stood back beside her and took her hand.

"Say it." He replied quietly.

"Are you sure you don't want to -"

"Your family, Lily." He said quietly.

So softly only he heard, she replied, "Soon they'll be yours, too." He grinned, she smiled back, and nodded. "OK. Stay with me." It was murmured with a touch of laughter, but she was sincere.

"Always." He replied, so quietly she wasn't sure she hadn't imagined it.

Together, they faced the family, a mixture of Weasleys, Potters, Scamanders and Longbottoms, Dominique's husband of six months and first unborn baby, of varying ages and sizes, and the Malfoys who didn't quite look like they belonged.

With Scorpius' hand tight in her own, Lily found her mother's gaze, looked straight into her eyes and prepared to speak.

"Are you pregnant?" It was Louis who spoke, and before Lily could deny it, James cut in with a loud, "You're not, are you?"

It was the same tone he'd used, Lily remembered suddenly, when he'd asked if she and Scorpius were sleeping together. She'd been almost seventeen at the time, and had been mortified by the question. _Big brothers aren't supposed to ask that!_ She'd cried, embarrassed. After a long, awkward silence, James had sighed and told her he was just worried about her, and big brothers were definitely allowed to worry.

"No." Lily said, loudly, silencing the murmurs that had began again. Scorpius' parents, who had looked horrified at Lou's question, relaxed slightly. "We are _not_ pregnant. There are no little Potter babies on the way. Sorry Grandma." She added with some amusement, then smirked at her eldest brother. It had been only a fortnight ago that Molly had spent twenty minutes telling James that it was time for him to find a nice girl, settle down, and give her a few grandbabies.

"What is it then?" Lucy asked loudly.

"If you'd let me speak." Lily replied, without much annoyance. This was her family, after all, and this was how they were. She allowed herself a second to wonder how Lucy would react. Now starting her second year of Healer training, Lucy barely had time to see her family, never mind date. The idea of getting engaged would seem foreign to her. Then Lily altered her gaze and met her mother's eyes again.

"Scorpius and I," she said, loudly and clearly with her voice shaking only a little, "are engaged."

It was met with silence. No one spoke, all eyes were on them. Scorpius looked nervously at his parents, who both looked stunned. Lily still looked at her mother.

It felt like forever, but in actuality had been only a second, before anyone reacted. Ginny strode forward, stopped for a fraction on a second in front of her daughter, then burst into tears and hugged her.

"I knew." Ginny murmured. "As soon as I saw you, I knew." Drawing back, she looked at them both. "Congratulations." She said brightly, and hugged Scorpius, too.

Harry stepped forward, took hold of both Lily's hands. "This is what you want?" He asked.

"You know I wouldn't do it if it wasn't." Lily nodded, and sighed with relief when he father hugged her, too. James and Al were beside him in seconds, and both swiftly hugged Lily. Though noise had broken out, Scorpius was still silently looking at his parents.

"Well? Mum, Dad?" Though his words hadn't been loud, everyone else silenced. Draco cleared his throat, then nodded.

"Congratulations, son." He said carefully. Astoria started to cry, swiftly moved forward, and embraced her son, then Lily.

"I know you didn't think we would be, but I'm so happy for you." She said quietly to Scorpius. "Really." She looked back at Lily, smiled. "I always thought you'd be the one."

It was as though a barrier had broken; members of the family surged forward; a laughing Lydia grabbed Lily in a tight hug and spun them both around, Hugo hugged her and made a show of kissing her, Lorcan high fived her before following the others and hugging her. Lily was embraced, kissed, spun, lifted off the ground by Teddy, had laughter ringing in her ears, and realised, suddenly, that tears were on her face.

Scorpius found himself subjected to the same treatment. Al and Rose and Ally Longbottom, as his closest and oldest friends, were the only ones he'd expected to hug him. Instead, Lily's cousins did the same, her Uncles clapping him on the back, her aunts kissing him.

Her Grandfather stopped in front of him, right after hugging Lily, and held out a hand. Feeling suddenly awkward again, Scorpius shook it.

"Welcome to the family, Scorpius." Arthur said solemnly.

"Thank you, ah, Sir." Scorpius replied politely. To his surprise, Arthur's eyes crinkled, as he grinned.

"Less of the sir. No place for formality in the family."

Scorpius grinned back, then his attention was diverted by Lily taking his hand again. She wasn't looking at him, though, but at her grandmother, who hadn't moved.

"Uh, Grandma?" Lily said nervously. "Aren't you, ah, going to welcome Scorpius to the family."

"Don't be silly, dear." Molly said, walking slowly towards them. For a fraction of a second, Lily froze in dismay. "I did that years ago." Molly continued. She finally reached them, and smiled. "Still, it's nice to make things official, isn't it?"

She flung an arm around both of their necks, strangling them in lieu of a hug. When she released them, her eyes were sparkling with unshed tears.

Molly smiled at them both, then turned to Draco and Astoria, who had shrank back from the loud display of family affection.

"And you two," She said carefully, "are part of the family too, now." Lily thought there might have been a reluctant, "I suppose" silently tacked on the end of the sentence.

Scorpius was pretty sure his father's thoughts ran along the lines of horror at being tied to the Weasleys forever.

"Thank you." Astoria said finally, breaking the silence. At once, the noise started up again, with someone fetching drinks, Ginny putting her arm round Lily's shoulders, Bill doing what everyone else was reluctant to, talking to Draco and Astoria, with Teddy beside him.

It quickly turned into a party, with the family spilling to other rooms, with noise and chatter and laughter and bickering filling the house.

"I can't believe I was so nervous." Lily murmured. "I wasn't sure how everyone would react."

"You know this lot, any excuse for a party." Ginny remarked. She turned slightly, met Lily's eyes. "You should know that we'll support you, no matter what you do."

"I know." Lily nodded. "That's what families are for, isn't it?"

"Absolutely." Ginny nodded. "Now, let's get you a drink, and then I guess I should get better acquainted with your future mother-in-law."

"Married, mum. Me." She smiled brightly, feeling a little dazed.

Ginny smiled back, and titled her face up, despite them being the same height. "Maybe skip the drink, huh? You don't look sober as it is."

"I don't feel it, either. But this is good, isn't it? This is a really, really good thing." The fear slipped through the excitment, showed on her face for a breif moment.

"Looks like it." Ginny said. She was torn between being blissfully happy for and proud of her daughter, and being sad that her youngest child, her only daughter, was all grown up and getting married. "Now, you go find that fiancé of yours."

With another bright smile, Lily broke away from her mother and moved towards Scorpius.


	81. Safe In The Dark

**More pointless rambling. Thanks for all the reviews last time.**

**81. Safe In The Dark**

He thinks of death a lot. There is, after all, little else to do in the cell but think. And what else is there for him to think about?

So it's death that his mind so often settles on. He wonders about what happens after death. Well, who doesn't? It's not even his darkest moment when he wonders about after. An afterlife, maybe? Some kind of Heaven? He'd heard talk about that, once dated a muggle-born girl who believed whole-heartedly in Heaven and Hell, God and Jesus, and every story the bible offered.

Sirius had told her, once, that he didn't mean to be disrespectful, but didn't she think the whole concept was a little too ridiculous, really?

That was the last conversation he and Mary-Belle had ever had. But Sirius had never believed in any of that religion stuff. Nothing added up, and as far as he could see, religion, God, all that kind of thing, were just made up by people who didn't know how else to explain something. Those poor ancient people, with their primitive living, hadn't know how else to explain the existence of their planet, their lives, and so had invented some kind of creator to fill in the blanks.

Mary-Belle hadn't appreciated that remark, either.

So no, Sirius doesn't believe in a Heaven, where all the good little people get to spend eternity. Some kind of afterlife, possibly. Was it too much to believe that there was a little something more than this life?

Sometimes, he thinks yes, it is. That death is final, the end. That once the heart stops beating, once the lungs stop breathing, everything descends into darkness, and then there is nothing. No thought or feeling or dreams or consciousness. No existence.

There's a safety in that, isn't there? In not thinking or feeling? In experiencing nothing. In _being_ nothing. Safe, in the dark.

He rather likes that. The idea of safety, finally.

Sometimes, he thinks of death itself, the act. The loss of life, that final breath, that last, single beat of the heart. Before everything stops, before darkness is all that is known.

These are his darker days. When he thinks of those he's lost (or, as he tends to think in these moments, those who were stolen from him) and wonders if it hurt, when that last, tiny bit of oxygen left them, when their respective hearts beat, beat, then stilled. He wonders if they were aware. If they had time to think, to brace themselves for any possible pain, to wonder about what would happen next.

He wonders if they were scared. Surely, if they knew that death was rushing towards them, they would have felt fear? Surely, those last few heart beats would have been fast and hard? Those last few breaths shallow, ragged?

If he tries, he can imagine it. The knowledge that these seconds, these very seconds, are the last. The painful hitch and drag of air against the throat, the impossibly loud, painful, thud of the heart, almost as if it's trying extra hard to force blood, life, through the veins. The frantic, broken thoughts, as the mind tries to make sense of what's happening, to prepare itself.

The sorrow, the little regrets. _I wish I'd had the time to...I wish I'd got the chance to go...I wish I'd said...I wish I'd done..._

Sirius imagines it a lot, only it's never his throat suffering painful hitches and drags, never his heart pounding loudly, painfully, never his frantic broken thoughts, never his sorrow or little regrets.

It was James' throat, heart, thoughts, sorrow, regrets. Or it was Lily's. Or Regulus'.

Sometimes, it was even Remus' throat, heart, thoughts, sorrows, regrets, even though Remus was still alive.

(But what kind of life was it, now? With two friends dead, one more dead as far as Remus knew, and another locked up for some of the worst, most unforgivable crimes? What kind of life could that be, now?)

He wonders about Regulus. When his thoughts stray to death, sometimes he wonders just how Regulus died. He never found out how; there weren't many details, or even a body. Just the fact. Just the stillness of a single heart.

He wonders if Regulus was aware that death was approaching. Wonders if it hurt. And hopes, with the lingering loyalty and love that nothing could kill, no matter how hard either tried, that Regulus didn't suffer.

Then he wonders about his brother, as a person. Always his brother, his family, more than their parents ever were, and yet less so than James and Remus and Lily (and Peter, and that still tortured him) became.

Was his little brother mad, or misguided? Evil, or stupid? Did he kill? Had he really sank that far?

Though he knows the answer is probably yes, Regulus did kill, and most likely more than once, a part of Sirius is certain and Regulus didn't have it in him to kill, that Regulus never took a life.

He dreams of death. And blood.

(He doesn't know it, will never know it, but his little brother dreamed of blood, too. He never finds out, but would have understood, that the dreams of blood broke his little brother, and led him along the path to his death.)

It's only day before he sees the picture – the one that forces him to break out of Azkaban – that Sirius wakes up in his cell, sweating and shaking, his breathing harsh, and is unable to close his eyes again.

The dream seems to replay through his mind anyway. The pale, broken bodies of Lily and James. He'd found them, that night. Had seen Harry off, with Hagrid, then cradled the body of his first real friend, of his brother in every way that mattered. He'd sought out Lily, too, what was left of her, cradled her, carried her down the stairs and laid her next to James. It had been horrific, at the time, and Sirius refused to think about it, to remember the still warm bodies, the feel of them cooling, cooling, never to heat again. The horrible motionlessness of their chests, as they didn't breathe. The open, empty eyes, staring, staring, but not seeing.

His dreams, though, his dreams gave him no choice, determined to torture his soul, taunting him with images of them, death and lifeless, separate and together. And this time he'd see Regulus, too, covered in blood, his eyes open and blank and staring.

Sirius was no longer the twenty-two year old he'd been when they first tossed him in a cell, locked him in the dark. But as the images of death and blood accosted him, he felt younger, much younger than he was now, than he'd been then. As a sob escaped his throat, he turned on his side, curled up, and lost himself to the misery.

Days later – at least, he thinks it's only been days, but it's hard to tell - when Sirius' plans are all in place, and he prepares to escape, he doesn't worry about death. He knows he could die, during his escape, after it. But he doesn't care. His death is not important. He no longer wonders about what happens after death, and doesn't ask himself whether or not it'll hurt if he gets killed. He doesn't imagine his own death.

It isn't important. Harry is, Harry, and fulfilling long ago made promises. Revenge, too. Part of this is revenge, and he isn't ashamed by that.

So Sirius transforms into the huge black dog, and braces himself. He isn't scared of death. Why should he be?

Surely, death must be easy, death must be peaceful. Surely it is no hardship to slip into darkness, to be safe, safe in the dark?

No. Why would he worry? _This_, living, is the hard part.

Surely death cannot bring the suffering that life has?

Death brings safety, of that he is sure.


	82. Scars and Survival

**More pointlessness, but hey, why not? Not sure how coherent it is, am slightly hung-over and running on very little sleep. But I think it's readable at least, if somewhat similar to other stuff I've written.**

**82. Scars and Survival.**

"Hi."

He sounded nervous, Ginny thought as she turned. She offered him a smile – it didn't reach her eyes, because nothing could erase the grief and horror in them – and wondered why he sounded nervous.

Was he scared she send him away?

No. Ginny Weasley had time for everyone, would never send anyone away again. Because it could always be the last time.

"How're you holding up?" He asked, then shook his head. "Sorry. Stupid question. I...It's the funeral tomorrow, isn't it?"

It was a stab to the heart. _Funeral_. Funerals were for elderly relatives, for strangers. Funerals were not for brothers.

Fred couldn't have a funeral. He _couldn't._

"Yes." She said quietly. Because Fred was having a funeral, and nothing could change that. "Tomorrow morning. Will you be there?" She didn't stumble over the question, didn't stammer. There was no awkwardness here. She'd always, even after their break-up, felt at ease with Michael. They'd never be friends, but they'd never be enemies, either.

"I...Yes. If you – if you want." Michael's arm was bandaged. Burnt, she knew, because she'd heard someone say, but she couldn't recall how. There were bruises scattered across his skin – almost the exact same colour as the ones that marked her own – and a gash above his eyebrow.

Battle wounds, she thought. They all had their battle wounds. Proof of survival, she supposed. She and Michael and countless others had marks and cuts, but they were still breathing, their hearts still beating.

She'd seen Fred's body, and Remus' and Tonks'. Not a mark on any of them, but their hearts were still and their lungs empty.

It seemed like some kind of twisted, poetic irony.

"I'd like you to be there." Ginny nodded. They were bound together, now, she thought. Even if she never saw Michael again – or any of her other peers, for that matter – they were bound, by what they'd seen, what they'd done.

She burst into tears without warning, and didn't fight when he wrapped his arms around her. She had, throughout most of her life, fought tears, hid them, controlled them. Tears were a weakness she wouldn't permit herself, a humiliation that she refused to live through.

Now weakness and humiliation were not important. Now nothing was important.

He didn't offer words. No words would be comfort, after all. What good would it do to say everything was alright, when nothing was, really? What good would it do to ask if she was okay, when no one knew if they'd ever be okay again?

So he simply embraced her, and fought to keep his own tears under control. It was pride, the male ego, that stopped him from breaking down with her.

She drew back, finally, offered him a weak smile. Her eyes were slightly swollen, a raw red that contrasted horrifically with her pale skin. Her lips were raw, too, patches of red showing where she'd bitten them, over and over, during the last few days.

She didn't look like Ginny. Not the Ginny he'd known. She looked older, sadder, and somehow defeated.

"Don't give up." He whispered it, and stroked a finger softly down the side of her face. "I know it's hard – God, I know – but don't give up, Ginny."

She nodded. "You too. Survive, OK?"

He nodded, offered the closest thing he could manage to a smile, and took both her hands in his. They stood, for a long time, because it was what they both needed.

Eventually, she withdrew her hands. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." She murmured, and turned, walked away.

----------------

Hermione fought the tears, because she knew that they would make Lavender feel worse. Poor Lavender, always beautiful, whatever her other flaws. And now, her pretty face marred, her arms ripped to shreds. The look in her eyes told Hermione that Lavender was yet to accept her new appearance. The beauty that was still there, behind the torn and magically sealed skin, was dulled by the helpless sorrow on her face.

"Thank you for coming to see me." Lavender murmured. Her voice was different, almost hollow. Dead, Hermione thought, then pushed the thought away, horrified with herself.

"Of course." Hermione murmured. "I'm glad you're alright."

Was she alright, really, though? Were any of them?

Lavender nodded. "Seamus – Seamus said you, you saved me. You got h-him off me."

"I, ah, yeah." Hermione nodded. Lavender looked too pale, almost the colour of the clean white sheets St. Mungo's provided its patients. A few shades more and she'd blend in perfectly with the bed. "I wasn't fast enough though, Lavender, I'm so sorry."

"Why did you – why didn't you just let him..." Lavender's voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. "I don't know how to live like this, I don't know how to be me anymore. Not like this."

Hermione's heart shuddered, painfully sympathetic of the girl she'd never particularly liked. But things were different now. Petty dislikes were a thing of the past, when they'd been young and innocent and not scarred, physically, mentally, emotionally.

But her voice was firm when she spoke. "One day you'll be glad I didn't let him kill you, Lavender. Listen to me, listen. You'll never be the same. Not because of what he's done to you, but because of what you've been through. You'll have to find out who you are now. And don't – don't focus on living." She reached out, put her hand gently on Lavender's elbow. "Just survive, Lavender."

"Why?" Lavender murmured, in a little girl's voice.

Hermione paused before answering, and when she spoke her voice was helpless. "Because that's all we can do."


	83. Becoming

**A little background, I guess. Big thanks for reviewing, and for actually staying with this, through the pointless little chapters and the long periods of nothing. **

**83. Becoming**

Hogwarts was still a mess. Work had been under way for almost a month, now, but it was still a mess of a building. Molly sighed at the sight of it, and wondered what help she could offer.

It had taken her this long to work up the courage to come here. September was ending, now, but there had been no new term, no students arriving at the castle. The more optimistic estimates suggested students could come back in a month; the less optimistic ones suggested January.

Looking at the building, what was left of it, Molly thought it might be another year before students could attend again.

But it wasn't as bad as it had been, that she was sure of.

"Mrs Weasley?" The voice was uncertain, curious, and Molly turned towards it, taking in the boy's appearance. He bore scars, but she thought they would fade, given time. His robes were dirty, bearing evidence of the effort he'd put into helping re-build the school. His hair was dark, and a little too long, but she imagined he had more important things to worry about that the length of his hair. He was tall, taller than her, and rather thin. It took her only moment to place his face.

"Neville Longbottom." She said it with a kind smile, and he offered a nervous smile back.

"Yes. Are you, um, OK? Are you looking for Ron?"

"No. How are you, Neville?" She remembered; the bravery, the sword, the snake. And wondered how a boy of barely eighteen coped with such a thing.

"Ah, yeah, fine. Holding up." He offered her a smile, but his eyes were far too mature, far too troubled. This boy had seen, done, far too much, just like her own sons, just like her daughter, just like Harry and Hermione, who were already, as far as she was concerned, as good as hers. "Um, you?"

She only nodded. To claim to be fine would be a lie, after all. Instead of commenting, she surveyed him.

He hadn't been eating properly, that was evident. And not sleeping well, either, she suspected. And, the poor boy had hardly anyone, did he? His grandmother, she realised, was the only real family he had. (Not that she was discounting poor Alice or Frank, but they were hardly in a position to give the boy what he needed, were they?)

"I hear you were a great help to Ginny, while she was here." Molly said gently. "Thank you."

Neville shifted uncomfortably. "We, um, we helped each other, Mrs Weasley. Me and Ginny and Luna...well. I don't know how we'd have managed without each other." He didn't know how he managed it in those final months, when both of them had left.

She looked at him, and for a moment didn't see the tall man he was becoming. She saw the round faced, nervous little boy he'd once been. She knew about his parents – who didn't? And it made him, in her books, worse than an orphan.

"I don't imagine it was easy. Neville, when you're finished here tonight, why don't you come home with Ron? You can stay for dinner."

"Oh." First was shock, then he smiled. "That would be very nice, if you're sure."

Neither knew it at that moment, of course. In fact, it would be much, much later, when they realised. But from the moment Neville accepted the invitation, he was Molly's. He became, gradually, a frequent visitor to the Burrow, and was accepted, silently, subtly.

Almost three months later, Hogwarts was open, teachers and students frantically trying to catch up with work. The weather was extremely cold. And Neville Longbottom had joined Harry and Hermione.

He was as good as family, too. Not a replacement son. No, never could anyone be a replacement. But family, in his own right.

----------

It was different with Luna. Almost two weeks after that last night, that final battle, when Molly could think straight again, when Ginny was speaking again, when the empty, hollow look was starting to fade from George's eyes (it would be a long, long while before they returned to their normal, laughter-lit selves, but this was the start) Ginny walked into the kitchen, and spoke quietly, hesitantly.

"Mum, I need a favour." She said, trying to gauge Molly's emotional state. "You remember Luna? Well, you heard about what her dad did, when Ron and Harry and Hermione were at his?"

"He called the _ministry_." Molly said, her voice hard, even though a little part of her murmured that, really, she'd probably have done the same, if she thought it would save one of her children.

"Yeah. Well, it's...difficult, at the moment, for Luna. She sort of understands why, but she also knows he could've got them killed. She...well, she's struggling to forgive him really. Thing is, Mum, I think maybe she'd feel better if she got away for a few days...stayed somewhere else..."

"Ginny, if you'd like to have a friend stay over, you know that's not a problem."

Hadn't been, Ginny thought. Never had been, but things were different now. Things could never go back to what they had been. "You're sure? I mentioned it to her and she thought it would be too much trouble, but..."

Molly looked at her daughter, and knew this wasn't entirely a selfless act. Yes, Luna needed a place to escape to, to think things through and decide what to do. But Ginny needed a friend, someone she could trust, someone who hadn't been close enough to Fred to be too lost in their own grief to offer the comfort Ginny needed.

Yes, Molly decided. Even if Luna turned out to be heaps of trouble, or if she was the most unlikeable girl on the planet, she was welcome here for as long as Ginny needed her.

As it turned out, Luna wasn't any trouble, and she was oddly endearing. In Luna, Molly saw a motherless, vulnerable girl, who'd been through far, far too much. Luna, who'd been kept prisoner in a cellar, and was both strong and delicate at the same time. Luna, who'd lived with Bill and Fleur, slipped easily into the rhythm of the family, despite having no family of her own other than the father she was struggling to forgive.

In Luna, Molly saw a child who needed a family. And Molly provided it.

Luna's place in the family became permanent when Luna came across a tearful Molly, alone in the kitchen. The family was scattered; most had left the house, and Molly had found an old T-shirt of Fred's in the laundry. The knowing he'd never wear it, knowing that it never needed to be washed again, had triggered the tears. And Luna, walking in, understood instantly.

She took the T-shirt gently from Molly, set it down carefully on the worktop, and hugged her.

"You haven't really lost him." She murmured softly. "You'll always have the memories, Mrs Weasley. And love. There was always so much love in this family, and you'll never lose that. He was a part of you, and you can never really lose him."

"It's just hard." Molly mumbled, unaware she was even talking. "Knowing he's not coming home. Knowing he's gone. I..."

"Maybe you should just think about how lucky you are, to have had him at all." It was a moment, a significant one, because Molly started to truely accept her son's death, and Luna realised that she had to forgive her father. But more, because Luna was, from that moment, family.

And so Luna's was Molly's, as much as Harry and Hermione were, as much as Neville was becoming.

And years, years later, when Molly gathered her children and grandchildren for a photo, as was her habit, Neville took his place in the group, his arm around Hannah, who was holding the few month old Lydia, while three-year-old Allison was balanced on Neville's hip. Their son, Mitch, at five, was stood in front of them, chattering with James, who was two full feet away. And Luna was at the other side of the group, stood beside her husband, the newborn Lorcan cradled in her arms while his twin, Lysander, was cradled in Rolf's. There was no question of their place in the family photo, no doubt of it.


	84. Shame Or Lack Thereof

**84. Shame (Or Lack Thereof)**

She wasn't ashamed. Luna was rarely ever embarrassed or ashamed, and while some might think this, _this_ was a bigger shame that wearing odd earrings or talking about Nargles, she wasn't in the slightest ashamed of this.

She wanted to go home. She could actually imagine herself joining the crowd, escaping out of the castle, going home and hugging her father. Waiting with him, for news, any news.

She wouldn't pretend to be brave, that staying and fighting was her only option. That she had no choice. Of course she had a choice, and she'd thought about just leaving. She didn't care what people would think of her for it, didn't care what _she'd_ think of herself for it.

But she decided to stay. She'd chosen to fight.

She was scared, and not ashamed of that, either. Why should she be?

She'd trained for this, she reminded herself, sending a stunning curse towards a hooded figure. She was _prepared._

But, damn, what good did that do, really? All the practice in the world couldn't prepare her for reality – she'd learned that two years ago in the ministry, learned it again last year upstairs.

She might die tonight. Luna knew that, had accepted that when she'd chosen to stay, even though Voldemort himself was coming. Even though her knees felt weak and her heart was beating far, far too fast and she felt close to tears. She gripped her wand tighter, hand trembling, and turned around.

In time to see Terry Boot – her house, a year above – soar through the air, far too fast, his head hanging limply, and hit the wall with a sickening crunch.

All at once, images ran through her head. Terry as a second year, telling Michael to "stop laughing at the kid" and nudging him away from Luna. Terry, a couple of years ago, helping her find her left shoe after someone had hidden it in the common room. Terry, standing outside their common room, looking embarrassed because he didn't know the answer and couldn't get in. Terry making awkward conversation when Ginny had dragged her along one break when she was meeting Michael.

He'd been nice to her, she remembered, a lump forming in her throat, even as she was aware of Michael frantically hurrying over to Terry's limp form, tripping and falling, crawling and stumbling, terrified. Terry had always been nice to her, never laughed at her. And now...

She moved forward – had to, _had to_ get to Terry and see, to see if he was...

Michael was kneeling beside him, and as Luna reached them a sob tore from Michael's throat and he made a sound, and horrific low keening noise, like an animal in pain. Tears leaked from his eyes as he clutched at Terry's wrist.

Luna's hands were shaking, badly, as she gently took Terry's wrist from Michael, as she pressed lightly, shifted her grip, pressed again.

And felt it. The weak push against her finger. And again. She closed her eyes in relief.

"I can feel his pulse." She whispered to Michael. "He's alive."

Michael burst into tears, and his hand moved to Luna's shoulder, gripping it painfully. She said nothing, only covered his hand with hers and waited for him to get himself together.

"Let's get him to the Great Hall." She murmured. "Madam Promfrey's there..."

-------------

He cornered her at Fred's funeral. Luna had only just broken away from Ginny's side, and had jumped when Michael grabbed her arm.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He said awkwardly. She didn't bother mentioning how jumpy she'd been lately, or the nightmares, or that, two nights before, she woken to find her face and pillow wet with tears and sobs still in her throat.

"It's OK." She told him. "How are you? And Terry and Anthony?"

She didn't know that he felt guilt, then, about all the things he'd said about her before, all the times he'd laughed at her. She'd been, he thought shamefully, a life-saver when Terry was hurt, and now she was asking about him, about his friends, with genuine concern.

"Yeah. Fine. Um, Terry, he's almost fully recovered. And me and Ant, we're...yeah. As good as...Um, how're you?"

She only nodded. She wasn't sure exactly how she was, really.

"I just wanted to thank you." Michael said, his words rushed. "For – when Terry was – you know – well, I was a mess, as you probably noticed, and if you hadn't been there I don't know what would have..." He trailed off, swallowed. "Thank you, Luna. Thank you a lot."

She was genuinely bemused. It was hardly anything special, was it? Anyone would have done the same, and if she hadn't have gotten there first, someone else would have.

But she smile, nodded. "OK. You're welcome."

Terry caught her less than an hour later.

"Michael told me, what you did." He screwed up his face slightly in concentration. "I think I sort of remember it, maybe. Anyway. Thanks, Luna, thanks a lot."

She was even more bemused. "It's fine. It was nothing. You're welcome."

And she knew, right then, that she'd definitely made the right choice that night. Yes, she was certain someone else would have helped Terry if she hadn't. But it was nice knowing it was her.


	85. Darkest Wishes and Reality Entwined

I actually wrote this months ago and just found it now. I like it when that happens. Let me know what you think to this?

**85. Darkest Wishes and Reality Entwined**

_I thought I knew him._

Remus downed another drink, relishing in the burn. He wasn't entirely sure what was in it, but he was pretty sure his stomach lining was being destroyed.

Good.

He wasn't the only one there, nor the only one drinking. Only three days after Voldemort's apparent downfall, and the celebrations didn't seem to be ending, even here, in this dark excuse for a pub, where the air was damp, the glasses dusty, and the floor sticky. There were, of course, solemn toasts to Lily and James, to their baby. Sadness at their death, at Harry's future.

But mostly, everyone was happy. Cheering and singing and dancing and laughing.

Laughing. Remus hated them all bitterly for their laughter, light and carefree. He was miserable; he had lost everyone.

James and Lily – _James and Lily_ – were dead. Dead, really dead, their hearts still and their lungs empty. He'd seen the bodies himself, still and pale and slumped on the ground, where they fell when life abandoned them. Harry, too, was gone now, snatched away before Remus could even say goodbye.

Harry was all but dead to him, too.

And Sirius. God, Sirius. Death Eater, spy, betrayer and murderer? How was it possible, when they'd grown up together, shared a lifetime, an adolescence? Brothers, they'd thought themselves. No matter that they'd met as their childhoods ended, no matter that they'd shared no blood, no family.

They were brothers.

They had been brothers, Remus thought bitterly. But now two were dead, one a stranger.

And him? Well, he was back to being alone, a werewolf, an outcast.

Remus lifted his hand in a request for another drink.

_If I'm a monster then what is he?_

* * *

_I can't, can't face him._

He'd been all set to go see him. He had to know why, had to find the reasons behind the betrayal. There had to be reasons, didn't there? Such an act had to have a reason behind it.

So he had been prepared to face him, to look into his eyes (such familiar eyes, but would they look the same?) and to ask why, _why_, he'd taken away everything that mattered to him.

He may not have got an answer. He'd known that, but hoped that some lingering loyalty would make Sirius talk to him. He'd had to believe that there was some lingering loyalty there, despite all the signs to the contrary.

Like sending Voldemort to Lily and James, like killing Peter and all those muggles.

He would have been able to get in, to see him. Dumbledore had connections, Dumbledore could have got him in. Remus knew it.

And yet he'd never managed to ask. Couldn't ask Dumbledore, couldn't go to Azkaban, couldn't face him.

How could he ask for an explanation? James and Lily and Peter were dead, and how could anything Sirius said make up for it?

So Remus simply sat indoors, and told himself that he wouldn't have been allowed inside, anyway.

It was, most likely, a lie, and he didn't much care for lying to himself.

But he couldn't face Sirius, face the boy he'd loved, the man he'd trusted, the person who'd betrayed him.

_So I can't face myself, either._

--------------------------------

_How do I untangle to truth from the lie?_

Nothing made sense – and yet it did – and it couldn't be true – and yet he wanted it to be, more than anything. Remus was confused and hopeful and angry, too – because if this was right, the truth had been kept from him for so long. If this was right, his hatred and anger had been directed at the wrong person, as had his grief. If this was right, he'd been embraced in a lie for twelve years.

But he wanted it all to be right.

This would mean losing Peter – but he'd already lost him, already mourned him, already accepted that loss. But it would mean he had Sirius back, his brother, mean he wasn't alone.

It would mean he could be himself again. That part of him that had been missing ever since he'd lost his brothers could be smaller. He'd lost James, he'd lost Peter, but if he hadn't lost Sirius then just maybe he'd be OK again.

_Darkest wishes and reality entwined._

------------------------------

_I don't deserve the light._

He's at home in the shadows now. The death of his remaining brother – and though he still loved the young boy Peter had been, still treasured the memories, Peter was dead to him, already – sent him right back to the shadows. Not, perhaps, the thick darkness he'd been lost in for the weeks, months, years, following Lily and James' death, Sirius' incarceration, Peter's apparent murder. The suffocating blackness that it had taken him five years to overcome. That had lingered until he'd found out the truth.

Sirius's death had sent him for the shadows, where he cowered like the broken wolf he was. He found home there, like before.

And she, she was everything he wasn't. She was youth and innocence and hope and love. She was light.

And the beast inside him – and it must be the beast, because the man knew better – wanted to let her love him, to let the man love her back. Wanted to taint her and ruin her, the way monsters do.

To take the light and drag her into the shadows.

_But are man and beast really so different?_


	86. The Oldest

**I haven't wrote much Bill before, but I put up a one-shot, _Truth_, a while ago, and this sort of continues it, though it's not necessary to read that to understand this. It's another negative one, so I'll try for something light and fun next time. Thanks for all the reviews.**

**86. The Oldest**

It was a long, long moment before Bill was aware of the hard floor beneath his knees and the ensuing pain. It was a while before he was aware that Percy was no longer behind him, and that he didn't know where Ginny was. He knew he should stand and pull himself together, find both of them and then the others, make sure no one was – no one else was –

It was only then that he was aware of the tears, falling slowly, silently, down his face. He couldn't stand, couldn't move. He ought to, because he was the oldest and it was his duty to make sure everyone was OK – but he'd failed, hadn't he, already failed because Fred was – Fred was...

And then a hand gripped his shoulder. It was almost painful, and when he moved his head to look for the source of the grip, he saw a slender hand he knew and reached up to cover it with his own. Fleur crouched beside him without moving her hand.

"I'm so sorry." She whispered. He only nodded because he couldn't yet speak, and concentrated on the feel of her hand on his shoulder. He couldn't have explained why that, the almost-pain of it, kept him rooted, but he had to concentrate on it. Then, without warning, he turned, very slowly, towards her, and let her embrace him. For a little while, he had to break, had to take comfort before he had to be strong and provide the others with it.

He never knew how long he was there for, his face buried in Fleur shoulder, but then she murmured his name, and then again, slightly louder, and he raised his head. And saw his mother.

Nothing could ever make him forget that, the look of stunned disbelief on her face, the devastation. He stood, quickly, gripped Fleur's elbow because he'd nearly knocked her over, pulling her upright with him.

"Mum. Mum." He spoke quickly, with no idea what he hoped to achieve. Molly didn't appear to see him, but moved forward, slowly, and crouched by Fred's body – God, God, Fred's _body_ – while Arthur (and Bill had only just noticed his father and the broken expression on it) stood, still and staring.

"Dad..." Percy murmured. It was only then that Bill noticed Percy, his arms loosely around Ginny as if they'd been hugging. Arthur shook his head, moved forwards. He brushed a hand over Ginny's hair, clasped Percy's shoulder briefly, then crouched beside Molly.

And when Molly made a sound, a horrible, pain filled sound, tears started to fall down Arthur's face. Bill watched and Ginny turned back to Percy and let him hug her again, and felt Fleur's arm slide around his own waist. He turned back, looking at Fred, and put his arm around Fleur's shoulders. She was here, he reminded himself, and if he had to lean on her a few times in the coming weeks, she would take it.

He just didn't know if he could.

It was only a minute, maybe two, later, that he saw someone gently, slowly, lay another body on the floor, just a little way away. Bill saw the shock of pink hair, and closed his eyes, willing it to be a mistake. Opening them, he saw Tonks' body still there, and felt his heart break a little more. She'd become a close friend, and had just had a baby. Overcome with grief, Bill started to turn away when he saw someone else lay Remus' body beside her. Both of them, he thought, suddenly cold. Both of them, gone, and how were they supposed to deal with this and what - and it would later occur to him that this was an odd thougt - what would they tell little Teddy?

He stood, his arm around Fleur because he daren't let her go, and felt miserable, helpless. Ginny looked awful, and Percy looked devastated. George...George was indescribable, staring down with a tangle of emotions on his face. His mother was inconsolable, laid over what had been her son, while his father tried to comfort her the best he could, silent tears running down his own face.

He'd never seen his father cry before. Not once. And Bill wished he wasn't witnessing it now, even though he, obviously, understood it. There was something very wrong about seeing his father cry. Fathers weren't supposed to cry, and Bill didn't care how outdated or sexist that might seem. His father had always been a quiet strength, and seeing this, the vulnerability, made Bill feel like a helpless child.

He looked away, and saw Ron coming towards them. Bill barely registered Hermione, focussing on his youngest brother. Oddly, memories were triggered, and images swam in front of Bill's eyes. The newborn Ron, his face screwed up in an angry wail as the twins jabbed at him curiously. The toddler Ron, staring at him with solemn eyes. A slightly older Ron, crying and looking at Bill. And the stunned gratitude when Bill didn't comment on the tears, simply cleaned the grazed knee that had caused them and providing a plaster. Saying goodbye when he first left for Egypt. Feeling both proud and sad when his youngest brother left for Hogwarts.

Memories, burned onto his mind, and Bill knew he'd never forget them. Just as he'd never forget the memories of this.

He gripped Ron's shoulder, because he was now a man, an adult, and not a young child who could be cheered by a plaster with a moving dragon illustration on it.

"Are you...are you alright?" Ron asked, his voice shaking slightly as he avoided looking at Fred (only, Bill thought as his heart shuddered, it wasn't Fred, not anymore, because Fred was gone and the thing that had contained him was nothing).

"_Me_? Forget about me. Are _you_ alright?" But there was a little pride, even with the sorrow, because Ron was all grown up now.

Ron lifted a shoulder, dropped it. "I don't know." He said, and Bill understood entirely.

He watched Ron crouch beside George, and thought wryly that Ron didn't really have the emotion maturity to handle this. But then, did any of them? Could anyone?

It was going to be hard, Bill thought. He'd have to be strong, for them all, because he was the oldest and that was his job.

Bill ran a hand down his face and wondered just how much strength he had.


	87. Trouble and Stupid

**Somewhat happier, I think. And I love these guys as a couple. Linked to chapter seventy-six. Thanks for reviewing, as always. **

**87. Trouble and Stupid**

She was crying. Lorcan could count on one hand how many times he'd seen Rose cry, and not one of them had occurred recently. But she was crying now, her face buried in her hands, gut-wrenching sobs ripping from her throat. For a moment, he hesitated, uncertain, then moved forward. He knew that she was usually humiliated by tears, and she might not thank him for his intrusion. But he could hardly walk away and leave her, crying and alone, could he?

"Rose?" He spoke softly, when he reached her. She hadn't heard his footsteps over her own sobs, and she jolted, looked up, stunned into silence. For a moment, the shock and embarrassment of seeing him stopped her tears; then her breath hitched and her eyes re-filled.

"Go away." She said, her voice shaking. There was no temper in her words, which killed the lingering hope he'd had that these were tears of anger or frustration. No, this was sorrow, glimmering in her eyes.

"What's happened?" He sat beside her on the little bench. Hardly the best place for a breakdown, she knew, but she hadn't been able to hold it in any longer. "Has someone hurt you?" He added when she didn't speak. She shook her head.

"No. Nothing...nothing's happened. It's nothing, Lorcan. I just need a minute, and I'll be OK." Would she, she wondered, _could_ she really be OK, out there, in the real world?

He paused, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. For a moment, she debated with herself, before giving in and laying her head on his shoulder. She didn't try to stop the tears, or the sobbing sounds that escaped her throat. He didn't try to stop her, just tightened his arm, and brought his other one around her until they circled her shoulders.

Finally, it stopped. Rose didn't move for several minutes, until she was sure she was completely under control again. Then she straighten slowly, and looked at him awkwardly, colour staining her cheeks.

"I'm, ah, sorry about that." She muttered. He only looked at her. Her eyes were slightly swollen, the skin around them pink. The embarrassed flush gave her a deep red stripe across her cheekbones, and there was a little blood on her bottom lip where she'd bit it.

Not the usual image she presented. "Don't apologise for it." He said easily. "Are you gonna tell me what kicked it off?"

She looked at the floor, staring at a tiny flower, almost hidden in the blade of grass. "It, it just kind of hit me." She murmured. "I've only got three days left, Lorcan, then I'm done here. I'll have to...to go out there, and get a job, and...I won't be at Hogwarts anymore."

"I know." He said. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you." She replied soberly. "And everyone else. What...what am I going to do Lorcan? I'll be out there, in the _real_ world, without all you guys around me. I won't be able to sit in the Room of Requirement with everyone, won't be in lessons with Albus and Scorpius, won't be sharing a dorm with Ally. I won't see you all every day. I don't know how to be alone."

"You won't be alone." He put a hand lightly on her knee. "You know you'll never be alone. You could go right round to China and this family will still find you." He let laughter touch his voice, but he wasn't amused. He didn't really know how to deal with her like this; upset, and looking so lost and vulnerable. That wasn't Rose. "There's no getting away from us."

She laughed a little, but there was still dampness in her eyes. "OK. I know." She rubbed her eyes, shook her head. "God, I feel stupid."

"You're allowed a meltdown every now and then." He replied lightly. The light tone helped; eased her mortification. "I can't imagine how scary it must be to have to leave here, and be a grown up."

She laughed again. "You told me a little while ago that I was already grown up." He winced at the memory, of talking to her right after fighting with his brother, when he was, though he'd never, ever admit it, close to tears.

"You are. But it's different, isn't it, being out there, and having to actually be an adult." Something he'd face in a couple of years himself. Something he refused to think about.

"I know. I was sort of...in denial, I suppose. I had this sort of, it'll-never-get-here mentality going on. It was the only way I could deal with it – pretending it wouldn't ever really happen. I, I don't know how I'll manage it. I don't know if I can." She shivered; noting she had no cloak or jacket, he stood.

"Course you can." He replied, as she stood, too, and they started a slow walk towards the castle doors. "You're the most capable person I know. You'll do great out there."

"You really believe that, don't you?" She said, her head tilted.

"Yup." Because there was something serious in her eyes, he deliberately lightened the mood. "Remember this when I'm unemployed and homeless, 'k? 'Cause I'll wind up on your doorstep looking for a place to stay."

She laughed, happier now. "I'll always have the room for you, I promise." She told him, as they entered the castle, then threw her arms around his neck. "Thanks, Lorcan. Really."

"No problem." He murmured, hugging her back. "Remember, Rose, you don't have to be tough all the time. And I, I'm always here."

"Thanks." She murmured again. As she started to withdraw, she kissed his cheek.

"You coming to dinner?" She asked, jerking her head towards the Great Hall, where students were starting to eat.

"Ah, sure. A minute." He murmured. She looked at him, and guessed from the odd look in his eyes that he'd remembered something he had to do first.

"'K. See you later." She touched his arm briefly, then moved past him, into the hall, and he turned slowly to watch her. When the door closed behind her, he raised a hand to the spot she kissed. And knew.

"Damn it, Scamander." He murmured. "You're in trouble now."

------------------------

_A little under four years later_

It was difficult for her, to make the transition from being Lorcan's friend and honorary cousin, to being his girlfriend. He seemed to adjust instantly, as did the rest of the family. And while she'd thought that some would find it disgusting, wrong, none did.

They'd been raised as practically family, for God's sake, Rose thought, irritated. Grown up together, as cousins, albeit honorary ones. She called his parents aunt and uncle, but no one, no one challenged them.

And she hated knowing that a part of her wanted them to, so that she could give in a just go back to being friends.

She glanced across the room, to where he was laughing with Lydia. God, she loved him. It was easy to admit to herself; she'd long since stopped using denial to protect herself. She loved everything about him, except, obviously, the little things she hated. But, damn it, she'd long ago accepted every fault and flaw he had; as he had her. And so they'd both tumbled into love without a single hitch.

Because it had already been there, she thought now, looking down into her drink. (One of the fancy wineglasses that they'd clubbed together six years ago for, and presented Molly with on her birthday, buying a couple of sets so that there was enough for the whole family.) They'd already loved each other, as family. So they hadn't fallen in love, as such; the love had just changed, altered, deepened.

And he, the male, the just-turned-eighteen-year-old who ought to be cringing at the idea of love, running from a committed relationship, seemed completely at ease with the whole thing. Sure, he looked a little uncomfortable when the others started teasing them, talking of marriage and children. But other than that, he was fine with it. And she...she wasn't. And, she realised guiltily, it wasn't exactly the idea of being in love, being commited, which worried her.

It was that it was Lorcan.

She looked up when Lily threw herself into the seat beside her. "Come on." Lily's voice was impatient, slightly exasperated. "Out with it."

"Out with what?"

"Whatever it is that's bothering you." Lily replied simply. For a moment, it almost all spilled out. Then she shook head. "No denial." Lily said, before Rose could speak. "You've been sat over here glaring into Grandma's best glasses for twenty minutes. And something's obviously been bothering you for the last few days. Is it because Lorcan's going back to Hogwarts in a couple of days? 'Cause you know, it's his last term, the last time he'll be going back there."

"That's...part of it." Rose managed finally. "But not the way you mean." Rose sighed, looked back down at her glass, then set it aside. "He's still in school for God's sake."

It took Lily only a moment. "Are you back on this whole age-difference thing? Jeez, Rose, it's not even a full three years. He's eighteen, he's an adult. It won't seem so bad when -"

"He's still in _school_, Lily. And I'm nearly twenty-two. We were raised as family -"

"So were Teddy and Victoire, at the heart of it." Lily shrugged. "Doesn't make you two wrong, or – or unnatural, Rose. You need to stop looking at all the things you see as wrong, and look at what's right. You two are perfect for each other. I've said it all along."

"I'm in love with him." Rose replied, a blunt edge of annoyance to her voice. It was the first time she'd said the words out loud, but Lily didn't so much as blink.

"I'm pretty certain he's in love with you." Lily shrugged, even though she was more than pretty certain - Lorcan had told her so himself. "It's hardly a surprise. You must have known when you got together that this was never going to be simple or casual?"

Rose blew out a breath. "I guess I figured it'd end up here. I just don't know how to handle it, now it has."

Lily grinned at her. "I know. Believe me. But you know what, Rosie? You just gotta relax and enjoy it."

"Uh-huh." Rose drained her glass.

-------------

It was maybe twenty minutes later that he made his way towards her, grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Hey."

"Hey." She said, and found herself smiling back. How could she not? This was Lorcan after all.

"Something wrong?" He asked, titlting his head.

"No." She replied, without hesitation. "No, everything's exactly right."

Stupid, she told herself, grinning like an idiot now, as everything fell into place in her mind. To get worked up over something so simple and perfect was stupid, and she made a point of avoiding stupidity.

There was no shame, no worries, as she leaned forward and kissed him.


	88. Memories

**Still somewhat light, I think. As always, thanks for reviewing. **

**88. Memories**

Of course she'd known that, eventually, a letter would arrive bearing her oldest son's name. Of course she'd known that, eventually, she would have to let him go. And, when James had turned eleven last Halloween, she'd known that it was only a matter of months before he was gone.

Ginny Weasley had never really been prone to denial - she had, after all, lived through some things that had been impossible to ignore, and so the comfort of denial wasn't something she had been able to enjoy. After James' birthday, however, she found denial the only way to cope with her son's immanent departure. So she'd refused to think about it, and whenever anyone mentioned it, she'd offer a weak smile and change the subject. Even Harry didn't make her talk about it, though he and Ron, to her annoyance, entertained James frequently with stories of their school days.

Now, though, she was holding the thick parchment envelope, looking at the name and address on the front in green ink. Memories pulled at her; watching her brothers receive their own letters while she burned with envy; holding her letter - _hers, finally_ - in her hands while they trembled, her heart light at the idea of finally joining Ron and the others at Hogwarts.

But her first year had turned out to be nothing like she hoped for, hadn't it? She'd nearly _died_. And while she knew it wasn't the same, that it wouldn't, couldn't happen again, the idea of her little boy going there terrified her.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, and considered just binning the letter. The thought was killed, of course, when the image of her son's crestfallen face intruded. She could practically hear his voice. _Why haven't I gotten in, Mum? What did I do? Aren't I a good enough wizard?_

No, Ginny thought, opening her eyes. She couldn't do that to her son. Which meant she'd just have to get over her stupid fear of the castle she'd once loved.

Even after the fiasco that was her first year, she'd learned to love the castle, eventually. Not in the way that her brothers, her friends, had, but in her own way. Her affection had never been as strong, but she'd decided she was entitled to that.

So she'd loved the castle until that night, when she'd seen death, blood, pain, in that building. When she'd experienced unimaginable loss within those walls. She hadn't returned there for her final year, hadn't been able to. Hadn't stepped inside the castle until a year after the battle, when the first annual memorial service was held. And then, she'd had to tuck her hands into her pockets to hide the way they shook, and she'd had to recite the times-tables in her head so she didn't think of death and blood and pain and lose it completely.

She was better, now, of course. When she went to the memorials, her hands were steady, and the times tables weren't necessary. But once a year was her tolerance level, and she wasn't sure how she'd cope when James was there, so far away, in the building that terrified her.

Didn't have to like it, she reminded herself. Just had to cope with it, for James' sake.

"Jay!" She yelled, loud enough to carry up the stairs. "James! Get down here a minute."

Barely a second later, running footsteps sounded on the stairs, and he burst into the kitchen.

"I didn't do it."

"You're not in trouble." Ginny said, though noted by her son's guilty expression that he ought to be. Often was, she thought, not without pride. Though James was often in trouble, causing trouble, or planning trouble, it was a part of him that she loved and recognised, and while often infuriating, was equally as endearing. "But you shouldn't run down the stairs." She added, knowing it would change nothing. The boy never walked.

"Oh. Good. What it is, then?" He paused, looked closer. "Is something wrong, Mum?"

And God, it was scary the way the boy could look at her and _see_. She supposed she was close to Lily, and Albus was often sensitive and understanding, but only James could look at her and see that something was off, even when she was doing her best to conceal it.

"No. Nothing's wrong, Kiddo. Sit down, OK?"

He kept his eyes on her as he slid into a chair, and she sat opposite him. And placed the letter between them, in the centre of the table.

His eyes flickered down to it, then widened. He looked up at her, his smile huge. "Is it - mine? Am I -" He snatched the letter up, tore into it, and Ginny had the pleasure of watching her son's face glow as her read the words. He looked up, grinning. "I'm going to Hogwarts, Mum!" He beamed at her, and though she smiled back and did her best to look as excited as him, his smile faded.

"Mum, what is it?" He asked quietly, letting his letter flutter back to the light wooden surface of the table. When Ginny started to say "nothing" he fixed her with a steely look that, she realised, was her own. She'd heard people say he looked like her, was a lot like her; only now did she see it. "I'm not a kid, Mum. Tell me what's wrong."

Of course he was a kid. A child. Barely into double figures. But he was _her _kid, and so she owed him the truth.

"It's not about you." She told him carefully. "I'm excited for you. I'm sure you'll…you'll love it at Hogwarts. And I'm sure you'll wind up in detention every night, too."

He grinned. "Not _every_ night, Mum. I gotta do Quidditch practice, too."

"Of course. You'll be great there, James." It was true, and her pride in him showed. But James's smile faded again, and he began to trace patterns on the table with his index finger.

"Is it because…is it because of what happened to you in your first year? With the diary…"

"Partly." She admitted. "But you won't be in any danger there. I'm just being…irrational. It's my job to worry about you, Trouble, and I'm damn good at it."

He grinned again, then sobered. "Is it…also because of…Uncle Fred and…" He faltered, obviously unsure how to phrase his question. "That's where he…died, isn't it? And, Teddy's parents…"

"Yes." Ginny murmured, hardly able to meet his gaze. "I'll be honest with you, Jay, because you don't deserve to be lied to. I don't like that place. It holds some bad memories for me, and it's difficult for me to go there. I'd appreciate it if you didn't repeat that. And while you're there, I'm going to worry, because of the way I think about Hogwarts."

"Oh."

"But you're going to love it, you're going to have a great time there." Ginny added quickly.

"Mum…Wasn't some of it good? Except for your first year, and your last year, wasn't some of the in-between years fun?"

"Ah…I…I guess…"

"So don't you have _some _good memories?"

She hesitated, then thought about, remembered. Watching Gryffindor win the Quidditch cup; talking to Luna for the first time and finding a genuine, nice person; standing up for Colin Creevey when some Slytherins a few years above them were picking on him, and walking away with her legs trembling but hugely proud of herself; meeting Michael Corner at the Yule Ball, finding that not only was _he_ a funny guy, but that _she_ could banter and be funny too; her first kiss, feeling nervous and stupid and then decidedly _not bad_; getting on the Gryffindor Quidditch team; learning magic in the DA, thrilled with the illicit meetings and the fact that she was pretty good at this stuff, helping win the cup and the amazing feeling that brought, causing the realisation that this, _this_ was what she needed to do, play and win, this was what had been missing; Harry kissing her for the first time; long, lazy afternoons by the lake and snowball fights.

She'd concentrated, for so long, on the negative side to Hogwarts; the times in her first year she'd found herself standing around, covered in paint or feathers with no idea why or how; seeing a tall, handsome but somehow terrifying boy emerge from a diary; fighting in the castle terrified and hurt; seeing her brother's body and realising just what she'd lost.

Nothing could ever, of course, cancel out those bad memories, but didn't the good times, all the good times, balance things out a little?"

"Yes, I guess I do." She murmured to James. "I've some great memories of the place." She managed a smile, and he smiled back. "And you know, Trouble, you're going to get some great memories too."

"Awesome." James said, brightened now that his mother looked happier. "Can I go show Al and Lily now? And then can I go over to Mitch's house and show him? Do you think he's got a letter as well?"

"Yes, yes, and if he doesn't he will do soon." Ginny replied, standing. James jumped to his feet and snatched up his letter, then ran from the room.

And Ginny let herself, just for a moment, remember the good times again. Maybe, she mused, just maybe, going back to Hogwarts for next year's memorial wouldn't be as bad as usual. Maybe this time she could remember all that Hogwarts had given her, not just what it had taken away.


	89. Never Forgotten

**Thanks a lot for reviewing.**

**89. Never Forgotten**

He didn't come here often. Maybe he ought to feel guilty for that, but George rarely found comfort here, rarely thought of his brother here. This was a grave, and it didn't hold Fred. His body, yes, the empty shell that had one contained his brother. But Fred wasn't _here_ and it wasn't here where George remembered him. The memories here were only of grief and pain and that numb, lost feeling. They were of the funeral, of watching the casket lowered into the ground thinking only,"No". No, it wasn't Fred, no, this wasn't happening, no, this wasn't real. Here, he remembered tears and sobbing and emptiness.

So he didn't come here often. He thought of his twin, with love, with fondness, affection, as well as with grief. He could remember the good times. And he could see Fred, in himself, in Ginny and his brothers, in his son.

Not that the boy looked like his long-dead uncle. George's son had skin the colour of milky coffee, and big, dark eyes, his hair a deep, dark red. There was some resemblance on the face; George could recognise his own nose, his own mouth, and so of course, could see Fred's.

But it was the smile, really. The bright, happy laugh. The light in the eyes. The mischievous streak. In all four he saw himself; and so saw Fred.

He sat on the grass beside the grave. The gravestone was, as ever, black and shiny, letters and numbers inscribed in golden letters. He focused, as always, on the line under Fred's name and dates. _Beloved son, brother, twin, and friend. Eternally loved, never forgotten._

No, never forgotten. How could he? Fred had been a piece of himself, and he would always feel the empty space where his brother ought to be, just as he would always notice the empty space where his ear had once been.

He crossed his legs, sought a comfortable position. And glanced around before he spoke.

"Don't come here often. I think mum would like me to come more often, but I know you'd understand. Never did like cemeteries, either of us. Death." He shivered. Death was forever the enemy; something to be fought and held off for as long as possible. And now Death would forever be hated, because it had beaten Fred.

"Ah, dunno if I should tell you all the latest news. Don't know if you can hear me. That's the problem, isn't it? Ah, OK, I guess I'll update on you on kids. Kinda why I'm here anyway." Not yet, though. Not time. Hadn't found the words.

"Uh, right. Well, Victoire's getting giddy because it's her birthday." And the anniversary, of course, of that battle, of Fred's death. But he wasn't here to dwell on that. "She's eight, which is, apparently, very big." He grinned a little. "You'd like her. She's a sweet kid. Most of the time. Um, Monique is a little quieter. More…serious, I suppose, sometimes. I guess maybe you've heard this before. Mum probably tells you…"

And he never had. He didn't make a habit of talking to the grave. But now, now he felt the urge to tell his brother, in his own words, all about the children he loved.

"Well, you get to hear it again. She's more serious, but the other day she found a frog in the garden, and put it on Percy's plate. It was amazing. The thing just sat there, and when Perce sat down, oblivious, it jumped…I swear it was such a moment. Inspired us, actually. Working on creating a model that does the same. Kid's toy. Um, Molly's quiet serious too, I suppose. She and Mon hang about a lot, looking serious and thoughtful. A little unnerving. She's excitable, though. Ange and I took them to the beach a while back and she was hyper the whole way there. Really into whatever she's doing. Enthusiastic. You'd like her, too."

He'd love them all, George thought, as much as he himself did. Because they were family.

"Um, Lou, he turned three a while back. Well, months back, actually. Taking swimming lessons for some reason. Apparently good at it. He's a pretty kid. I know that sounds weird, but he is. Ah, James turned one at Halloween. It's still hard to believe, our Ginny with a baby. Two, nearly. August, the doctors say, beginning of it. She's not too happy about the idea of being, as she puts it, big and fat during the summer. He's already walking, James. He can manage a few steps before he falls. Kid would probably stay up longer if he slows down. Trying to run, mum says. And Ron's loving being a dad. He's really wrapped up in it. Million pictures, never shuts up about her. I guess that'll wear off eventually. She's only a few weeks old, after all. He adores Rose, really, and is amazed by her. I hope he keeps that."

He would, George thought. He always would.

"And, ah, my boy, he's nearly three, too. I gotta tell you, I'm still amazingly proud of him. Don't know how I managed it. No way that kid came from me. I, ah, I guess I came to tell you…well, Angelina's pregnant again."

He'd been meaning to come here, say it, for months. And had only just talked himself into it.

"Few months gone. She thinks it's a girl this time. Is absolutely sure. Ginny swears she knew James was a boy, so maybe there's something in it. We're, um, thinking of calling her Roxanne. If it's a boy, we'll name him for Dad, but it's Roxy for a girl. I can't wait. I think I'd like a daughter. Another son would be amazing, of course, and - and Fred would probably love a brother, but I'd like a girl." It was just a little bit difficult to say his son's name.

"Thing is, I'm more normal now. It's taken me a while. I suppose I'll never be completely the same. But I…I don't have the dark days anymore. I'm happy." He toyed with a blade of grass, looked up, out, towards the sky.

"I have everything I wanted, and I've finally realised that I'm allowed. So don't think that I've forgotten you, or anything, but, but my son, and the new baby, they deserve to have me, whole and – and normal, like I'm supposed to be. They deserve to see me as I was – before – and that's who I'll be. So, erm, that's all."

He could swear he heard a rustle, a quiet movement. And there was warmth, not a breeze but a source of warm, beside him. He looked, saw nothing, and stood, slowly. And then, in his own head, a voice - his voice, Fred's voice - murmured; "It's about time."

For a moment, George only stood. And then he smiled. Maybe this was just his own way of convincing himself Fred was still present, that he understood and approved.

"I guess I'll be seeing you. I, um, I'll bring a picture of the baby when it gets here." He took a step, without looking back at the grave. And whispered only two words.

"Bye, Fred."


	90. The Hardest Thing

****

Well, really, there was no choice involved. I started writing it before I'd even checked anyone would be interested.

So this is an extra epilogue kind of thing for my recently finished story, _Heart and Home_. For those who haven't read it, all you need to know is it centres around James (the second) and Neville's daughter, Ally. All their children are adopted, apart from Mason, who is Ally's biologically.

Oh, and we've reached chapter ninety now, and more than a thousand reviews, so big, big thanks to you all.

****

90. The Hardest Thing

He was nervous. James Potter didn't remember ever being this nervous, not even on his own first day of Hogwarts.

"This is the worst day ever." He muttered. Ally laughed a little, but when he looked at her he saw the sorrow in her eyes.

"I know it'll be hard, with him not here, but he'll be back before you know it. Christmas isn't too far away."

"It's months away." He buttoned his shirt and glanced at the door. "D'you think he's awake?"

"Probably. My first day, I was awake for hours. You can go talk to him if you want."

"Wouldn't you rather…" He was dying to talk to his son, but he imagined Ally was, too.

"I think this is man-to-man stuff." Ally replied quietly, and smiled when he nodded and left the room. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and wondered just how she'd manage without her little boy.

"Hey, buddy." James said in Mason's doorway. His eldest was sat on the edge of his own bed, his big grey eyes nervous and his light brown hair messed up.

"Hi, Dad."

"You nervous?" James entered the room and sat beside his son.

"Yeah." Mason replied, in his isn't-it-obvious voice.

"You know you'll be fine. And Caél promised me he'd look out for you -"

"I know. It's just…gonna be weird. Being away from home." And it was Ally's seriousness that glimmered in Mason's eyes. James looked at him for a long moment, considered the two sides of his eldest son. The serious, careful side that Ally had given him; and the confident, funnier side that James liked to think was his doing.

"It's gonna be weird not having you here. I know Gina's already missing you." James responded. Mason shifted, thinking of his little sister. She was five, and she adored him. Obviously, sometimes she was really lame with it, but he secretly liked it.

"I guess I'll miss her, and the others, too. Dad…what if Leo forgets me? He's not even two yet."

"He won't forget you." James said, suppressing a smile. "You're his big brother. I promise he'll remember you. You'll be home for Christmas, son."

"I know. Helena's only three, she might forget me too."

"Helena loves you. Mason, I promise, no one will forget you while you're away. We'll write to you all the time - you know your mother will want to write daily, but I'll try and stop her. Won't look good in front of the guys."

Mason grinned at that. "I'm the oldest, though, and I should be around to look out for them."

James looked at him with surprise and pride - when did his son get so grown up? God, he could remember holding the tiny - and who knew anything could be so _small_ - newborn for the first time, he could remember Mason's first, stumbling steps - managing three before he fell, landing hard on his backside and looking shocked - the first time he said the word "dad" beaming at James, causing James to very nearly cry (not that he'll ever admit it, of course).

"Well, you're right that you ought to help them out when they need it, because that's what family do. Maybe, since you're older, you should protect them, too, whenever you can, but you know, me and your mum are here, and we'll always be here, to help and protect all of you."

"I know. I guess Jasper could maybe handle it while I'm gone." Since Jasper was nine, James doubted he would have appreciated being handed responsibility. "And Max can help him. Even if he is only eight." But he didn't, James noted, look particularly pleased about that. And remembering the first time he left his siblings, James thought he might understand.

"Mason. They're always going to need you, buddy. You know that. No matter where you go, what you do, you'll always be their big brother."

"I know."

"And you know, I think the lot of them are going to miss you like crazy while you're gone."

Good, Mason thought, because it was really irritating to know he was going to miss all of them to death.

"I guess."

"C'mon, Kiddo, let's see what you can talk your mum into feeding us."

----------------

He absolutely did not want to go onto the platform. In fact, James would have liked to take his wife and children as far away as possible and pretend Hogwarts didn't exist. Even if Mason was looking decided more excited, and happy enough to let Gina cling to his elbow.

"James. Don't even think it." Ally replied quietly, only half joking and well aware what her husband was thinking, then lifted Leo out of his car seat. "C'mon. Grab Helena, or she'll wonder off again."

Their youngest daughter had a habit of that, James though with a smile. He turned to smile at the three year old, who grinned back. With huge blue eyes and light blonde hair, Helena contrasted sharply with her big sister, who had wavy black hair and big dark eyes.

James lifted her into his arms, then grabbed hold of Max's shoulder. Max was the son they hadn't planned on, or at least, hadn't planned to have when they did. They already had Mason, and Jasper - who had charmed everyone at the orphanage with his vivid blue eyes and bright smile. James had seen him first, and completely fallen for him, then taken Ally to see him. Ally had taken one look at that smile and lost her heart. So Jasper was theirs.

So, with Mason hitting four and Jasper being two and a half, they'd decided they wanted a daughter. And then, at Phoenix House, Ally had looked around the room and seen Max, eighteen months old, looking at her with haunted bronze eyes. She gripped James' arm, and asked how he felt about another son.

Max had been abused. They weren't entirely clear on how, by who, how much, and likely never would, but the both of them had known, just by looking at those spooky eyes, that someone had hurt the boy, and it had been confirmed by a worker. James had had some reservations about their capabilities to handle such a complication, but in Ally's mind, Max was already hers. And James didn't take much convincing. And there were no regrets. Max's eyes were no longer haunted, and even his nightmares had almost completely gone. And, James knew without guilt, if he ever found out who had hurt his son, he would hurt them twice as much.

Gina had been next, followed by Helena, and then Leo, their latest addition. They were everything James and Ally had ever dreamed off.

Which meant, of course, that letting Mason go was going to be hardest thing either of them had ever done.

"Jazz. Stay with your mum, please." James ordered, as his second eldest son looked around the station with wonder.

"I just wanna look at -"

"Jasper." Ally's tone was full of warning, and with a sigh and a mutter, Jasper moved closer to his mother.

They reached the barrier that would lead them to the platform, and quickly divided up, James grabbing Gina's hand and holding it, along with Max's, while Ally, still holding Leo, urged her eldest sons forward, passing through the barrier directly behind them. James watched, then followed.

It brought back memories. The thick steam, the crowd and noise. But mostly, James though about how this was his last few moments with his eldest.

They stowed Mason's luggage quickly, and then fell into silence, clearly unsure. It was Gina who broke it, looking up at her brother and pleading, "Don't leave, Mason."

Mason's expression was somewhere between horror and pain. James and Ally both opened their mouth to defuse the situation, but were stopped by Mason kneeling on the ground and looking at his sister.

"I've got to." He told her simply. "You want me to learn magic, don't you? 'Sides, I'll be home at Christmas, Gee, and that's not even all that far away. And I'll write home all the time and Mum and Dad can help you write back."

"But I don't want you to go. I'll miss you."

"I know. I'll miss you too." His voice was decidedly low as he replied, because everyone knew how uncool it was to say such things. Just as the very, very brief hug he gave her was uncool, but hopefully no one saw it. What else was a guy supposed to do when faced with huge, tear-filled eyes?

The warning whistle blew, which sparked off much rushed hugging and fast talking. James hurriedly gave his son the warning his own father had given him, Helena threw her arms around Mason's waist and refused to let go until forcibly pulled away by Ally, Leo started to scream at the top of his lungs, Max demanded pictures and letters all about the castle, and Jasper looked unimpressed with the whole lot of them.

"You gonna miss me, Jazz?" Mason asked, smirking, hovering by the door. Leo finally silenced.

"Guess so." Jasper replied flatly, then lost the battle against the grin.

"Mase, you better -" Ally began worriedly, and Mason nodded, climbing aboard. He leaned out of the window.

"Make sure Leo remembers me."

"Will do." Ally promised with a smile.

"Don't let Jasper steal my bed."

"Done." James smirked, laying a hand on Jasper's shoulder.

"Keep Hel and Gina out of my stuff."

"Of course." Ally nodded.

The train jerked into movement. For a moment, Mason's eyes widened, then he relaxed a little. "See you at Christmas." He said quickly. "And…Don't forget to write."

"Promise. See you soon." James replied.

"Bye, sweetie." Ally murmured, and the first tear escaped as the train pulled away. James wrapped an arm around her waist and they watched the train until it rounded the corner. She laid her head on his shoulder; his kissed her temple.

"He'll be OK." He assured her, because she needed it the most. She may have held it together for Mason's sake, but now…

"I know. I know. He'll do great. I miss him already." Her voice broke.

"Me too. It's only three and a half months, Ally." He told her, and felt his stomach jump. More than three whole months. "We're doing a damn good job with that one, you know."

"Yeah." She gave herself another moment before straightening, offering him a smile, then turning back to the kids. "Helena, let go of Jasper's hair. Max, stop tormenting Gina. Gina, don't you dare kick him. I mean it!"

"Here, gimme Leo." James murmured, and lifted their son from her. "C'mon, kids, let's get out of here."

It felt, for all of them, very, very wrong, to leave the station, pile into the car, and drive home without Mason.


	91. Time

**Just one of those ideas that I wrote while I should've been revising. If I fail my exams I'll blame fanfiction. **

**97. Time**

"I'm pregnant." Her voice trembled, as did her hands. Her eyes were wide and glimmered with unshed tears. And fear. She was scared, he thought, somewhere through the roaring sounds in his ears. She was scared - of him? Of his reaction?

"You - you're sure?" He asked softly. The sound seemed to drag in his throat, coming out gravely and leaving a vague pain behind. She couldn't be. How could he be a father - well, sort of - and not know? Shouldn't he have felt it?

"Yes. Completely." Her voice was steadier now, and he thought maybe she was angry. He wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to react to the news that his fiancée was having a baby, but he supposed he ought to act happier, more enthusiastic.

He just couldn't quite manage it.

"But we - we were going to wait. Until after we'd married. Then we were going to talk about it, decide whether or not - when to -"

"I know. Things don't always work out like you planned." Hannah told him. "We're having a baby, Neville. I'm sorry if you're not happy about that, but, but we are."

"It's not that I'm not happy." Was it? He didn't know what he felt. "It's just a shock. We hadn't even decided if we _wanted_ kids -"

"Hadn't we?" She almost snapped it. "No, no, we hadn't made decisions. Because whenever I told you that, yes, I absolutely do want children, want a family, you would say there was plenty of time to talk about that, and change the subject."

"I know. I know." It was just, the idea of a _baby_ terrified him. And he'd thought when they were married, it wouldn't scare him so much, and he'd be able to picture himself as a father.

He tried now, to picture himself with a child. And found he couldn't.

"We're getting married next month, so we, we'll be married when it's born, if that's what's bothering you."

Hannah was looking at him expectantly, the fear still there, but now mixed with annoyance. His heart still jittered with terror - a father, him? He didn't know how to be a _father_ - but he forced a smile.

"It doesn't matter that it's sooner than we planned. This is - this is great." He managed a smile, and she burst into tears and threw herself at him. He hugged her back and closed his eyes. He had months to get used to the idea, to feel happy about this. It didn't matter that he felt nothing now.

------------------

Ginny laughingly hugged him, tight, and he managed a smile as he hugged her back. "Congratulations, Daddy." She said, and he only just managed to keep the smile in place as his heart dropped down into his stomach.

------------------

He felt that maybe telling his parents they were going to have a grandchild ought to have gone differently. But he stuttered the words out, and felt the usual brief, sharp pain when Frank and Alice Longbottom only looked blankly at him.

They weren't happy. They had no reaction to his news, obviously felt nothing for the unborn child.

For once, he completely understood. But it was OK. He had seven months to work his way up to happy, to feel something for the kid.

------------------

"Everything looks normal." The healer smiled at them both. Neville managed a smile back, and found himself unable to follow the conversation Hannah was holding with their healer. Of course he was glad the baby was healthy. And it wasn't that he _didn't_ want a baby. It was just…

He still couldn't picture himself as a father. He couldn't quite manage to like the idea of a child. Couldn't quite look forward to being a dad - couldn't quite _want_ this baby.

Six months, he told himself. He had six months to get used to the idea, to picture it, and to like it.

-----------------

"And it's amazing that Ginny's pregnant too. I know she's a few months ahead of me, but it's still nice to have someone to go through everything with. And it's so good that it's finally happened for them, they've been trying for a whole year." Hannah chattered brightly, and Neville nodded. "Hermione and Ron are trying too, I hope it happens for them soon. Wouldn't it be amazing if we could have kids all growing up together? They'd be best friends -"

He stopped listening then, lost in thought.

Harry had been excited. Terrified, absolutely terrified, but thrilled. He'd had a stupid expression on his face, had looked so - so -

Why couldn't he feel like that? Why couldn't he be excited and thrilled? Why couldn't he be looking forward to seeing the kid for the first time, to the first word, first steps?

"And you've already arranged time off with the school, right?" Hannah's question brought him back to the conversation.

"Ah, yeah. Yeah. I'll be working for the first term, then they'll have someone cover the rest of the year."

"Oh. Right." Her smile faded a little. "I thought you might want to be here with me for the last few months. I mean, I can still handle the bar, or hire more help, but I thought..."

"Ah." It hadn't even occurred to him. "Well, you know, the baby's due in January, and, um, this way I won't start back until the _next_ January so, I, I get more time to help, I mean, he or she will be a year old before I go back to work."

A year old. He wouldn't be working for a whole year. When he went back, he'd have a one year old. And even though they'd told him he could have as much time off as he needed, he couldn't imagine having a full year off, never mind any more.

"Oh. OK, then. Listen, I know it's a little soon," Hannah smiled sheepishly, "but I was thinking about the baby's bedroom..."

He had five months. Still plenty of time.

-----------------

"Hannah? I'm home." He walked into their living room, wondering vaguely if he'd be any good behind the bar when the baby was here and he was sharing Hannah's workload. He tried not to think that in just a few months, there'd be no more Hogwarts, no more coming home just for the weekend or a few hours during the week. Instead, he'd have a baby, be a parent. And it scared his that he still felt only dread at the idea of parenthood, and _nothing_ for the baby. And disgusted him that a part of him was thinking Hannah wouldn't mind if he didn't take time off work after all. He couldn't leave her alone to handle the pub and a baby, he just couldn't. It wasn't fair. "Hannah?"

He walked into their bedroom, and found her there. She was sat on their bed, her arms around her stomach - he was both fascinated and terrified by the size and shape of it now - surrounded by pictures, and sobbing.

"Hannah?" He murmured. She shook her head; when he stepped closer, he saw the pictures were off her mother. Her mother alone, with her father, with her friends, and with Hannah, lots of them of her and Hannah over the years.

"I was just - just thinking about her." Hannah choked. "God, I wish she was here. She'd love this. She'd love being a grandmother. She'd be here with me. I can't - I can't believe she'll never meet...I miss her so much, Neville."

He eased himself onto the bed and hugged her. She cried harder.

"I feel all alone, Neville. I know it's stupid, I _know_ it, but I can't help it. I mean, I have my friends, and, and the Weasleys are great, I mean, Molly comes by here almost every day to check on me."

He hadn't known that.

"That'll probably stop once Ginny has hers, she's due in a few weeks, but it's still really sweet of her. But you're at work all week - I know you're busy and you can't come home during the week, I know - but you're not here, and I don't have any family. I feel so alone. I'm sorry. It's stupid."

"It's not. I'm sorry." He whispered guiltily. He should've been around more, he thought, instead of avoiding his wife and worrying. He was a lousy husband, a lousy father, and the kid wasn't even born. "I'm so sorry. I'll start my paternity leave early. I'll start it now. I'll be here. I'm sorry." It didn't matter that he was only doing that for Hannah, not for the baby.

He had three months. He'd be here, and he'd definetly get used to idea, and feel _something_ for the baby.

-------------------

"What's it like?" He asked Harry. Baby James yawned and fell asleep in his arms. " Being a dad?"

"I'll let you know when it's sunk in." Harry told him. "It's amazing, Neville, it's amazing."

Neville smiled, but wondered if he'd feel _anything_ when his child was born.

"Not long left for you." Harry pointed out, and Neville nodded. Then, quietly, he confessed.

"I don't know how to be a parent. Mine were - they were never - you know."

"I know." Harry's expression sobered. "Really. But, but that doesn't really make much difference. I mean, Ginny has her parents but we're both new at this, both as scared as each other. Really, Neville, you'll be fine."

Neville nodded. Still time, he told himself. Still time, then he'd be as happy as Harry.

-------------------

"OK, so we have a short-list." Hannah smiled, shifting. "You don't think it's - tempting fate or anything, do you? Picking out a name?"

"We've only got a month left." A month. God, a month, and he'd be a _dad_. "Everything's fine. I think we're OK."

She smiled at him. "OK, then, boys' names, we have…" She reeled off five names. "And girls' names…" Five more. "C'mon, you must have a favourite."

"What's your favourite?" He asked, smiling. She grinned.

"I don't have one. That's why you've got to choose."

He laughed, and wished he could pick a name. Wished he could picture a child, picture himself as a father, choose a name. Wished he could say, honestly, that he wanted this kid, was looking forward to it's birth, instead of feeling only fear and dread.

He'd felt the baby kick, and been amazed. He'd heard the heartbeat on the check-ups and been facinated. But he didn't love the baby, not like Hannah already did. There was no longing to finally see, hear, hold his child.

He had a month, though. Surely, in the last month, he'd get there?

"I…I guess, the boys' names…Mitchell is my favourite."

"Mitch." Hannah murmured, and smiled.

---------------------

All he could think, as Hannah talked, fast, panicky, terrified, was that his month was up, and he still wasn't _there_.

---------------------

"Mitchell." Hannah sobbed it. "He's our Mitchell, Neville, our Mitch. We've got a son."

"I know." He whispered, staring down at him. The tiny, tiny creature, his son, his little boy. Tiny and helpless and perfect in every way. "I know. Our Mitch."

And he almost laughed. He hadn't managed it at all during the pregnancy, not in the beginning, not towards the end when he'd left work, not during the final weeks when they'd chosen names. But that didn't matter, because now he had a son, a _son_, a baby, a child, and it didn't matter that he'd struggled throughout the pregnancy, didn't matter that he'd never had his parents, nothing, nothing mattered.

He was a dad, and he could picture it all, and he couldn't wait to experience everything.

He cradled his son - gently, gently, because he'd never hurt little Mitch, and never let anyone else hurt him, either - and was swamped by love.


	92. Dreaming Darkly

**92. Dreaming Darkly**

The girls were holding hands. Stood, side by side, with Juno, the youngest girl, in the middle. Caél was beside Adelaide, his hand on her shoulder. His arm was around Victoire, who was on his other side. She was crying.

Now he looked closer, he saw that Juno and Adelaide were, too. And Dora's eyes were shining, but she had that look on her face that she always got when she was determined to hold the tears back. And Caél's expression was so lost, so broken, and yet the way his arm was around his mother's shoulders, the way his hand was on his sister's shoulder, seemed far to mature for the twelve year old he was.

Teddy moved closer to them, his stomach clenching. His wife and two of his daughters were crying. His eldest daughter was struggling to hold back the tears. His son was clearly upset.

They were trying to be strong, he realised, though with no idea where the knowledge came from. Dora and Caél were trying to be strong for their sisters and mother. Why?

"What's wrong?" He asked them once he'd reached them and stood before them. "What's happened?"

None of them even looked at him. Dora closed her eyes; a single tear slid from under her left eyelid. She was wearing no make-up. Though it was usual for her not to wear any around the house, Dora hadn't gone in public without make-up since she was about fifteen. Her hair, blonde and loosly curly, was pulled back from her face. She hardly ever tied her hair back.

"Dora? What is it?" He asked, to no response.

Juno tightened her grip on Dora's hand, and Teddy shifted his attention to her. Her own hair fell in her face, messy and wavy. She was fourteen, just reaching the stage where her appearance was important to her. But not today, it seemed.

"Juno? Talk to me - tell me what's happened." Nothing.

Adelaide reached her free hand up and covered her brother's. She looked far, far too pale, and he'd never seen her look so upset.

"Adelaide? God, will someone tell me - ?"

Caél lowered his head at that point, and Teddy ran a hand down his own face. Something was very, very wrong, and, for some reason, he felt it was his fault.

"Vee? What's happened?" He asked softly. Victoire didn't look at him, but she raised her head slightly and he saw her tear filled eyes, the skin around them red and swollen, settle on something behind him. He turned, and saw a gravestone.

He could've sworn that hadn't been there a minute ago - hadn't he walked, right there, to reach them?

His heartbeat sped up and he filled with dread as he knelt.

Etched in the smooth, cold stone was his own name.

Teddy woke, a gasp catching in his throat. His heartbeat was still racing, and it took him several second to realise he'd been dreaming.

He'd dreamed he was dead, and that his wife and children were crying by his grave.

Rolling onto his back, he decided that something was very, very wrong with him.

He sat up slowly, as quietly as he could, and looked at Victoire, who was sleeping still, her features relaxed. No tears, no swollen red eyes. She was fine.

Though he knew it was stupid, he climbed quietly out of bed, and went to check on his children.

Caél was, as usual, sleeping on his stomach, his arms flung out, the cover half on the floor, and one knee bent so the bottom half of his leg was pressed against the wall. Teddy had no idea how he could sleep like that, but it was, more often than not, the way he did.

He relaxed slightly to see it, and to hear the steady breathing of his son. Crossing the hall, he stepped into Dora's room. Only half a year left before his little girl would be finishing Hogwarts. His baby, a grown-up. It was terrifying.

She was sleeping, too, on her side, facing the wall. He relaxed a little more and backed out of the room, closing the door again, before heading into Juno's room. She was curled up, and fast asleep. He smiled slightly at the way she'd bunched the covers all around her, even though it wasn't that cold.

He must have opened Adelaide's door louder, or maybe it was just that she'd always been a light sleeper, but she woke when he looked in on her, blinking at the light the open door let in and struggling to focus on him.

"Dad?"

"Sorry, kiddo. Didn't mean to wake you up."

"What's wrong?" She asked sleepily, stretching.

"Nothing. Just looking in on you. Go back to sleep, Addy." He felt a little embarrassed now.

"Something's wrong with you." She sat up, pushed her hair back. "What's up, Dad?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing. Really. I just had a weird dream. Freaked me out a little, I guess."

"Oh. Well, it was just a dream, Dad. You gonna be able to forget about it?"

It was a question he used to ask when the kids had nightmares. If the answer was no, he'd get them a glass of milk and tell them stories - usually real stuff, like from Hogwarts - until they fell asleep.

He smiled at her, nodded. "Sure. I'm already forgetting it." It was a lie, but he wasn't about to tell her that he knew the dream would be with him for a while.

"Sure?" Her eyes were already unfocused slightly with tiredness.

"Yup. Back to sleep, Adelaide Grace."

"Da-ad. Don't middle name me." She told him, sliding back under the covers. He laughed quietly, watched her make herself comfortable again.

"Night." He whispered.

"Night." She was asleep before he closed the door.

He went back to his own bed, settled down, and, for a long, long time, lay away staring at the ceiling.


	93. Smoke and Hate

**93. Smoke and Hate**

He was sixteen. That was very cool, of course. Sixteen was practically adult, and he could make his own decisions now and people couldn't tell him what to do anymore. Well, that's what he'd thought, but the adults around him didn't seem to agree. Still, sixteen.

On the other hand, he was getting dangerously close to leaving Hogwarts now - he'd be seventeen, a legal _adult_, in less than six months, _and_ people seemed to expect him to be more mature.

Where was the fun in that?

He leaned casually against a tree in the Hogwarts grounds, talking idly to the group of boys he was with. One of them, Brian, reached in his robes pocket and drew out a small packet. Teddy watched in fascination as he drew out a cigarette and lit it with his wand.

"Them those muggles things?" The boy called Dan asked, his expression mirroring Teddy's.

"Yeah." Brian, thrilled with the attention, took a long drag. "You want one?"

"What do they do?" Jake, Teddy's long-time friend, asked casually. He was the only one who didn't look overly impressed.

Brian only grinned. "Try one, mate. See for yourself."

There was challenge in his voice, but Jake only shrugged. "What's the point?"

"I'll try one." Dan said quickly. Brian smirked lazily as he held the packet out.

"Me too." Another boy, Jack, said quickly. Teddy watched the two of them struggle to get the thin white stick alight, while Brian, sounding slightly smug, told them how. Jack instantly started coughing, ending up bent double with tears streaming down his face. While the others laughed, he steadied himself and handed the cig back to Brian.

"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted."

"I like it." Dan-o said smugly. He didn't, at all, but he wasn't going to admit it.

"You wanna try, Teddy?" Brian asked, holding out the one Jack had rejected.

"Ah…" Awkwardly, Teddy looked at Jake, who shrugged.

"Go on, Ted. One won't hurt." Brian urged. Teddy hesitated. It wasn't like he and Brian were even friends. It wasn't like it mattered what he thought.

"Sure, OK." He reached out, accepting it, even as Jake rolled his eyes, and Brian grinned, obviously seeing it as some kind of victory.

Jack was right. It tasted disgusting. And Teddy found his own throat reacting, causing him to cough. Brian grinned smugly and ignored the fact that it had taken him half a packet to get over the choking and coughing.

"Never mind, Ted." Brian said. "Not everyone's up to it."

"Yeah, takes real skill." Jake said, rolling his eyes. You couldn't pay him to suck on one of those things, inhaling smoke for no reason.

Annoyed, Teddy tried again. He only coughed once this time, though his eyes were watering.

He was about to hand the thing back and give up when a group of girls walked past. Seventh years, all pretty, he noted. One of them, a tall brunette, looked over, and grinned at him.

"Girls like smokers." Brian informed them. "They think it looks cool."

Jake snorted, but Teddy watched the brunette walk across the grounds, considering.

----------------------

It wasn't difficult to get hold of them. Brian had a constant supply, and sold them cheaply to anyone who wanted, enjoying his new-found popularity. Teddy sort of felt like he was doing something very, very wrong every time he brought a pack, but he liked hanging out in the grounds, smoking casually.

"Those things'll kill you, you know." Jake told him. "And if they don't, your Grandma will when she finds out."

"She doesn't have to find out, does she? Besides, Bri's right. Girls like it."

"No. They don't." The familiar female voice made Teddy jump guiltily, but he fixed a smile on his face as he turned around.

"Hey, Vee." His oldest friend, his best girl friend, glared at him, then at the cig in his hand.

"What do you think you're doing? Those things are disgusting, Ted. Do you know what they do to you?"

"Ah, relax, Vee. It's no big deal."

"It's not clever, Ted. It's not cool."

She stormed off across the grounds, and Teddy rolled his eyes. "Girls. She'll get over it."

--------------------------

__

Eighteen months later.

It was raining, heavily, and Teddy's hair was already soaked from it. His hands cupped around the cig as he smoked as fast as he could, he shivered from the cold. He'd be screwed if he was caught out here with it, but he couldn't quite face another few hours of lessons without one.

As thunder rolled in the distance and the rain fell even heavier, Teddy cursed himself for being stupid enough to get hooked on the things. Finally done, he tossed it aside and ran into the castle.

"Been out for a fag, have we?" Victoire's voice hit him as soon as he entered the building, and Teddy was annoyed to find himself feeling like a little boy caught scribbling on the walls.

"Yeah." He said coolly. They were still close, still best friends, but she still, after a year and a half, refused to accept this little habit.

"Jeez, Ted, when are you going to stop? Look at the state of you. You're going to end up with pneumonia at this rate, and God knows the damage those things are doing to you. Marjorie's mother smoked for years and she ended up with -"

"I don't _care_ what happened to Marjorie's mum. I don't _like_ Marjorie. And it's not like it'll happen to me."

"Yeah, 'cause it's normal to cough like _that_. Do you _like_ that stupid habit ruling you? You have to go out in the rain at break time, rush out before lunch. Sometimes I see you sneaking out before lessons. And Jake told me about you smoking in the boys' bathroom the other night. You told me it was only once or twice a day."

He winced. It had been easier to pretend that break and lunch were the only times. And to hide the fact that he'd been slipping into the bathroom before bed for a quick smoke.

"It's not much more than that." He muttered.

"I don't like it. I don't like smelling it on you. I don't like seeing you like this. I don't like it."

"What, you want me to stop because you don't like it?"

"No. No, I want you to stop for you. Because I care about you and I don't want you to make yourself ill. You're better than this, Ted."

She walked away slowly, and he ran a hand through his wet hair. And sighed.

"Damn girl." He muttered.

Several hours later, he sat on his bed, staring out of the window.

"Not going for your bed-time smoke?" Jake asked him, throwing a book on the floor. The area around his bed was a mess, so much so that reaching the actual bed took careful co-ordinating.

"No." Teddy muttered. When Jake only smirked, he concluded that he'd witnessed his and Victoire's conversation. That annoyed him.

"Quitting, are we?" Jake persisted.

"Maybe." Teddy replied. It annoyed him that he wanted to, now. Not just because it was eating up his gold, not just because he was sick of having to go out in the rain, but because - a lot because - Victoire hated it so much.

"Trying to get back in Vee's good books, are we?"

"Shut up, Jake."

Ignoring his friend's laughter, Teddy climbed into bed, and refused to wonder why Victoire's opinion mattered so much.


	94. Ending in Grief

**94. Ending in Grief**

Her ankle was killing her. The pain, God, the pain. And more, the fear. Everything around her was chaos, and she knew that, were she to be attacked now, she'd be pretty much useless. Remus had rushed past her, pausing to ask if she was OK, to which she'd nodded. A lie, but he was needed elsewhere, she knew. Tonks had stopped, knelt by her, murmuring in a very, very fast voice that the ankle was probably broken, and that she could try to fix it, but she'd never been great at fixing bones, and it might be better to wait until she was back at Hogwarts, unless the pain was too much. Ginny had shook her head, told her to go on, help the others. Tonks had, instead, helped Ginny into a corner, telling her to keep alert, keep her wand ready, and to stun anyone who came through any door.

"If you stun someone on our side, they'll wake up, so don't hesitate, Ginny. Better safe than..." _Sorry_,was the correct ending to the phrase, Ginny knew, but in her mind, she finished Tonks' sentence with _dead_.

When Ginny had nodded, Tonks had rushed off.

She'd tried to stun Bellatrix as she'd rushed through, but missed. Harry had been so close behind that she'd recognised him before she could react. When he'd ignored her, his face twisted with rage, shock, pain, she knew something had happened.

_Ron. Hermione. Neville. Luna._

She'd lost track of everyone, but before she could struggle to her feet and go look like she'd planned, Remus was beside her.

"What's happened?" Ginny demanded instantly. "Who's..." She'd been about to ask "who's dead?" but though better of it. "Is everyone OK?"

"No." Remus looked, she realised suddenly, in immense pain. Full of grief.

Her heart twisted. "Who?" She asked quietly.

He shook his head. "Let's get you back to Hogwarts. I'll do what I can for the ankle – Madam Promfrey can fix it."

"Remus." She'd never used his first name before, but, as he helped her to stand, she had to know. "Who?"

He sighed a little. "Sirius..." It was all he could bring himself to say, and all she needed to hear.

She didn't breathe. For a long moment, she didn't breathe, didn't move. She managed to ask, "How?" and listened in silence to Remus' explaination. It didn't make sense, it couldn't be true, and yet she knew it was.

It was the first time she'd experienced the death of someone close to her, and she knew, in her heart, that it wouldn't be the last.

"Tonks and Mad-eye are on their way to St. Mungo's." Remus added. "Professor McGonagall is dealing with Ron, and Hermione and the others. They'll meet us back at Hogwarts."

"Harry...?"

"With Dumbledore. Come on, now, Ginny." She was scarcly aware of him getting her to Hogwarts, to the hospital wing, though she remembered to thank him.

Sirius was dead. Sirius was dead, and she only now realised how much she'd liked him, how much he'd meant to her. He was a rare kind of adult, one who treated her and the others as equals, not just kids. She'd always remember that, always like him and respect him for it.

Sirius was dead, and she grieved.

And so her fourth year of Hogwarts ended in grief.

------------------------

She couldn't breathe. Ginny looked down at her brother's face and couldn't breathe. Bill was unconscious, and though Ginny was aware of her family moving around her, speaking, sobbing, he was all she could focus on. His face would be disfigured, she thought, without knowing how she knew, with absolute certainty, that he wouldn't be healed.

She stepped back; no one noticed. She took another step; no one noticed. They were busy with Bill, of course, and Ginny found herself heading swiftly for the doors, relieved that no one saw. She walked quietly down the hall, telling herself she'd just go outside for some air. Just to breathe. Just to be alone, just for a moment. It was selfish, possibly, to abandon her family right now, but she couldn't help it.

The castle doors were open, and when Ginny realised there was a crowd just beyond them, her heart sank. Something was happening, something more. All she'd wanted was a few moments alone...

It didn't occur to her to go back, to ignore it and leave someone else to deal with things. She strode through the crowd, her face determined, her pace swift, cutting through the nervous students easily.

She saw Hagrid first. Then Harry. Even as fear leapt at her she moved forward. And saw Dumbledore.

For a moment, she stood, perfectly still, her mind rejecting the sight. He was dead, and she could see it. If it hadn't been obvious from the sight of the body, she'd have guessed from the way he'd been left. Hagrid, Harry, neither would've left an injured Dumbledore laying there.

Dead. How could Dumbledore be dead? How could they ever win this war without him? Hopelessness flooded her, and she felt a sudden urge to go home. Go to bed, go to sleep and pretend none of this was happening. Ignoring it, she moved forward.

She heard Hagrid trying to get Harry to move, and felt her heart break a little for him. She touched her hand to Harry's shoulder, and murmured, "Come on, Harry."

She slipped her hand into his as they walked towards the castle, to comfort them both. Even as she spoke to him, she was barely aware.

Dumbledore was dead. Bill was badly injured. Nothing would be the same, ever, ever again. And she knew, she _knew_ that everything was about to get much, much worse.

She felt numb.

And so her fifth year ended in grief.

------------------

The emotions around her, inside her, were conflicting. Relief, joy, gratitude, excitement, and pain. Immense pain.

The adrenaline was still jolting her system. Ginny had been in enough battles (not like this one, never like this one) to understand it would be a little while before she calmed down.

But she didn't know if she'd ever be the same again.

Fred was dead. Ginny stood in the crowded hall, where minutes before, Voldemort had been killed, and struggled to understand how her brother could be dead.

She sank onto a seat, uncertain, and refused to grieve.

Several hours later, Hermione took her hand as they left the wreckage of the library. It had been stupid, probably, to go there, seeking a way to reverse death, to bring her brother back. Stupid, desperate, and, in the long-run, only more painful. Hermione had, to her credit, said nothing when she'd found her there, but sat with her and helped, systematically searching the books for a answer they both knew didn't exist.

She'd have to accept he was gone. Ginny knew that. Eventually, she'd have to accept it, make her peace with it, and move on. Eventually, she would. (She had to hold onto that, as tightly as she held onto her Hermione's hand, because if she didn't believe she wouldn't always feel this way, she'd lose herself completely.)

As they left the castle, Hermione slipped her arm around Ginny's waist. Later, much, much later, Ginny would thank her for it, because without it she might not have managed the long walk away from her brother's body.

At home, she lay on her bed, looking at the ceiling, too tired to be angry. To tired to deny the truth.

And grieved.

So her sixth year of Hogwarts ended in grief, too.


	95. One Little Secret

**Just for fun, really. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last time.**

**95. One Little Secret**

"Why?" Ron asked him, looking extremely confused.

"Dunno." George shrugged, still handling the end-of-day stuff. "She said something about getting the full experience."

"Why can't you just get the full experience of putting it together magically?"

"Because she's a woman, and the whole breed are strange."

Ron snorted.

"But you'll come over and help me, right? Saturday, 'bout noon. Between us, we should be able to figure it out. Can't be that hard."

"Right. Saturday. Sure. Don't imagine it'll take long. Half hour, tops, right?"

"Right. Lock up."

---------------------------------

"It isn't here!" Annoyed, George threw down the instruction booklet. "How are we meant to put the stupid thing together with pieces missing?"

"This doesn't fit. It says this should slot in here, but it doesn't fit." Equally frustrated, Ron glared at the pieces of wood in his hands.

"How do the muggles _do_ it?" George asked, looking at the pieces on the floor between them. "The pure-blood maniacs have it all wrong. The muggles must be well intelligent to do this stuff. They should enslave _us_."

"One day." Ron muttered absently. Thoughtfully, he turned one of the pieces he held the other way, and tried again. This time it fit easily. "Oh. That's why, then." He glanced at his watch, and sighed. "We've been at this for more than an hour, and we've gotten _nowhere_." He looked up, met George's eyes, and they both started to laugh.

"God, I hope Hermione doesn't make me do this when our turn comes."

"Your turn?" George grinned. "You and Hermione? She's going to let you be a dad?"

"Apparently. She's been talking about it. Mostly I just nod. But she reckons, next year, we'll be...you know. Ready."

"She's got a lot of faith in you." George smirked.

"That's what Ginny said. I still can't believe _you're_ going to have a kid. Do you think I'll actually...eventually, do you think I could be an OK dad?" His tone was light, but the question was serious, and so George answered in kind.

"Yeah, I do. Found it!" He snatched up the piece he'd insisted was missing, and picked up the instructions again. Instantly, confusion settled on his face.

"George? Angelina's not here."

"No. Shopping with Alicia. Baby things." Frowning in concentration, George studied the instructions.

"So...what if we just...magicked it together. She wouldn't know...

George looked up. "You suggesting I _lie_ to my wife?"

The tips of Ron's ears turned red. "No. 'Course not. I just meant..."

"That's the best idea I've heard all day." George tossed the instruction booklet over his shoulder, and jumped to his feet. "At this rate, we'll never get it built, and she wouldn't like that, would she?"

"Nope." Ron stood, too, grinning. "So really, you're doing this for her."

"Exactly. And it's not like we'll even have to lie. Unless she asks us straight out if we put it up by magic."

"And if she does, you'd only be lying so she wasn't disappointed." Ron added eagerly. Together, they lifted their wands, aimed them at the unassembled cot.

Seconds later, they surveyed it.

"Looks exactly like it's supposed to." Ron decided.

"And safer, too, than if we'd done it without magic."

"Yeah. We'd have probably forgot something."

"You would have." George replied, the insult automatic. "It looks pretty good."

"Yup. Make sure she doesn't figure out we cheated, George. She might take it down and make us do it properly."

"She might _watch_ to make sure we do." George added, horrified.

"That settles it then. Don't tell _anyone_. No one."

"Not even Hermione." George warned him.

"_Especially_ not Hermione. She definitely wouldn't approve."

"Our little secret, then."


	96. Rescue

**This moment was mentioned on an earlier chapter, _Letters and Love_, in the letter Ginny wrote to Harry. I was looking over some of the older stuff yesterday, because I realised I'd been writing this for almost two years now, and decided to expand on a few stuff. That's how yesterday's chapter came about, actually, it was mentioned in chapter 60. **

**Anyway, you can probably count on more frequent updates for a while. I'm having a little trouble with starting a new story, so I'm taking a break and focusing on this for a while.**

**Big, big thanks to all reviewers. This takes place during the last book, at Hogwarts.**

**96. Rescue**

The scream was high, and loud. Ginny swore, and swung towards the sound. Luna sprang for the door; found it locked.

The scream came again.

Ginny, her wand already in her hand, moved forward swiftly and tried to charm the lock, to no avail.

"We need to get in there." Ginny muttered, without hesitation.

"It's a kid, isn't it?" Luna asked her. "A first or second year."

Ginny listened to the sounds of pleading from within the room, and nodded.

"We'll blow a hole in the wall. You remember how?" She said quickly. Luna nodded, and tightened her grip on the wand. "You get the kid, get them out of here." Ginny added, thinking fast. They'd been back at Hogwarts only a couple of months, now, but this was far from an unfamiliar situation. (It broke her heart, a little, that Hogwarts, her Hogwarts, was so different, so awful. Wasn't it bad enough that everything else was happening, without losing Hogwarts, too?)

"And you?" Luna asked. Inside, the kid screamed again. His sobbing pleas started before the scream had stopped echoing.

"Someone needs to keep the Carrows busy." Ginny murmured. "It sounds like they're both in there – but one kid..." She paused, straining to hear, and jumped at another scream.

"Now, Luna. On three. One...Two...Three!"

Together, they blasted a hole in the wall. The three people inside stopped, turning to look at them in astonishment. Ginny recognised the young boy, a Gryffindor first year. A first year, an eleven year old. A child.

Angry, she scanned the boy, then muttered, "McGonagall. Get him to McGonagall."

Luna nodded, and, when the Carrows started shouting and Ginny started shouting back, she crouched down. "Come on." She hissed to the boy. He was on the floor, pale, obviously terrified. "You're OK, now. Come with me." Luna urged, and he crawled forward. Crawled, his muscles aching from the torture curse. Luna helped him to his feet, and, with Ginny and the Carrows still arguing loudly, pulled him with her as she ran. Neville, Hannah, and Seamus were at the end of the hallway, and stopped talking to look at her in confusion.

"The Carrows. They were -" Luna gestured to the boy beside her, and no more explaination was necessary. "Ginny's with them – alone -"

"Seamus." Neville said, pulling out his wand. The other boy nodded, and withdrew his own. "Hannah, could you go with Luna and the boy, please?" Without waiting for an answer, Neville moved forward, Seamus beside him.

"Are they going to hurt the other girl?" The boy asked, his voice shaking. "The one who was with you – will she get hurt because of me?"

"Maybe." Luna replied honestly. "But she'll be OK. Neville and Seamus will help her. C'mon, we're taking you to Professor McGonagall now, she can help you." They started, quickly, down the hallway.

"They must be brave." The boy murmured. "Really brave. I thought – I thought I was going to die."

Luna glanced across him at Hannah, who's expression registered the shocked disgust she felt.

"You're safe now." Luna murmured. "Were you in detention?" When he nodded, she didn't hesitate. "Next time, you come and find one of us, OK?"

"In fact, go to any of the sixth or seventh years." Hannah added. "Except Slytherins. But you tell them to let the DA know there's going to be first years in detention, OK?"

"Ah, yeah, OK."

"That goes for any of you. Tell as many first years as you can." Luna continued swiftly. "They can go to anyone. Tell them, they just need to tell one of the older students to let the DA know, OK? Like Hannah said."

The boy nodded. "Ask a sixth or seventh year to let the DA know first years will be in detention, right?"

"Yes, exactly. If they know when, where, that's great. If not, we can find out. Hopefully, we can stop things going too far." Hannah explained, as they neared McGonagall's office.

"You'll resuce them? Like you did me?"

"Ah...We'll do what we can." Hannah replied, then knocked of McGonagall's door. She answered a moment later, a quill in her hand, looking distracted. When her gaze landed on the boy, she sighed, as though she already knew. It took only seconds for them to explain, and only a few seconds more for McGonagall to assess the situation. After making sure the boy had no pressing injuries, she asked him to wait in her office, assuring him he'd be safe, then told Luna and Hannah she'd see to Ginny and the others. Luna watched her hurry down the hall, as the boy settled himself nervously in McGonagall's office.

"You'll be OK?" She asked him, and he nodded.

"Thanks." He murmured, and both girls smiled at him, before pulling the door closed and heading, slowly, in the same direction as McGonagall.

"You don't think we were wrong, do you, to tell him to let us know about first year detentions? I know we discussed it at the last few DA meetings, but we hadn't decided to do it yet. And not everyone agreed to intervene, even if we did -"

"I know." Luna murmured. "But it's not right, is it? They're only kids, they shouldn't be..."

"I know. I'm just worried that we...that we're not ready for resuce attempts. We'll have to spread the word with the second years, too, and make sure the other years know they can ask for help if they want it. That's what we said at the last meeting. I'm worried that they'll only be a few of us that agree to do it, and it won't be enough." She sighed. "But we have to, don't we? We have to do something."

"Yes." Luna looked down the hallways, saw Neville, Seamus and Ginny walking towards them. "We'll do all we can."

"And hope it's enough." Hannah murmured.


	97. Forgiveness

**97. Forgiveness**

The first time would be the hardest, he figured. Not as hard as the funeral. God, that had been…that had been hell. Pure hell. He'd kept his head down for most of it, unwilling to look at the coffin, the headstone, his parents, siblings, friends. And the sympathy, too, had been difficult. He'd never liked sympathy - sympathy for being poor, for being Harry Potter's often-ignored side-kick, for Ginny being taken into the Chamber of Secrets, for having Percy abandon them.

But this was worse. This was sympathy for having a dead brother, and Ron had been unable to look anyone in the eye. Instead, he'd clung to Hermione's hand throughout the whole thing, trying his hardest not to take in any details in the hope that his memory of this day would be blissfully unclear.

Instead, almost two weeks later, he could remember it with perfect clarity.

Ron hesitated outside the cemetery. He knew the path to the grave, despite having been there only at the funeral. It was, apparently, burned in his memory.

He considered leaving. He'd told only Hermione that he was coming here - because he'd wanted to be alone, and his first attempt to shake her off ("spend some time with your parents, I'll be fine, go on, I know you missed them") had only made her suspicious.

So she was the only one who knew, and he knew she would tell anyone else. Just as she wouldn't judge him if he chickened out.

But everyone else had been here now, except George (and no one blamed George, no one would blame him if he never managed to make himself come here) and Ginny (and no one even thought about that, not when Ginny was barely speaking, not when she'd taken to standing alone in the garden or staying in her room, and no one could seem to get through to her, even Hermione) and Ron knew that if he left now, he'd feel guilty about it for ages. So instead, he picked his way through the graves, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.

And then, he was there. Standing beside the grave, knowing that, inside, buried in the ground, was all that was left of his brother.

"Hi." He murmured, sitting down on the grass. The grave was cluttered. WWW products, pictures, balloons, models, and the blue teddy bear his mother had put there. Ron took it all in, felt the ache, and turned his attention to the headstone. The black marble reflected the sun's glare, and the gold writing shimmered.

Ron sat in silence for several minutes, feeling awkward, feeling low.

"Feel stupid, talking to you here." He admitted. "It's like talking to nothing. I don't know if you can hear. And I figure if you can hear me, then you'd be able to hear me at home or wherever. It wouldn't be just limited to here, would it?"

He paused again, for a long, humming moment. "I don't exactly miss you. Maybe I will, once I get used to you not being around. Right now it's like - it's like we're all really aware that you're dead. George and Ginny are the worst. And Mum. She's just cooking a lot, all the time. Hermione says it's because she needs something to do, something to focus on. But George, he's - he's a mess. I've never seen him like this. Sometimes he seems to be coping, he's almost back to normal, and sometimes…he was arguing with Charlie yesterday. Something stupid. It's not right. And Ginny's barely talking, and she's - I don't know how to help her - and it's all your fault."

The first signs of anger touched his voice. "You know, sometimes, when I was younger, I hated you. You were awful to me sometimes. You and George. Sometimes I hated you. But this - this is the worst thing you've ever done Fred. You've messed us all up."

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but nothing happened. And still, he had to get it out, had to speak the words, because otherwise he'd go crazy. This was his real reason for coming here, though he'd never admit it, though he wasn't really aware of it. But to heal, he had to grieve, and to do that properly he had to let go of the anger.

"How could you just leave us? You weren't _supposed_ to die. If it was going to be any of us, it should've been me. I spent most of the last year in danger. You should've been safe. You just left us and we don't know how to cope with it and Mum and Dad are - they're not - none of us are the same! You did that, you did it, and I…"

He stopped, before the words _I hate you_ could leave him. Instead, he stared at his brother's name, etched into the headstone, and calmed himself. "I don't know how long it'll take me to forgive that." He shook his head. "I really don't."

He stood, because he was done. He'd said all he needed to, and though he wasn't aware of it, he'd taken the first step to moving forward.

He exited the cemetery, started walking back to the house. And saw Ginny at the top of the road. Panic gripped him, and he quickened his pace until he was close enough to see her expression, and assure himself that nothing was wrong.

"Hi." She murmured, and he nodded. "Hermione told me where you'd gone. She wasn't going to, but I made her. I thought - I thought you might not want to be alone."

She shrugged, looking a little self conscious.

"Thanks." He murmured. "Are you - do you want to go -"

"No." There was something desperate in her tone, and he watched her struggle for control. "I, I can't. Not yet." She told him bleakly, and he nodded, understanding suddenly that she'd waited up here for him, because she couldn't bring herself to go any closer to their brother's grave.

"That's OK. Come on." He draped an arm over her shoulders, and together they started home.


	98. Acceptence

**Have you guys seen how close we are to a hundred chapters? And how many reviews you amazing people have given me? Much appreciated.**

**So this one kinda contects to the last one - this time period, just before and just after the war, seems to be where my mind is fixated right now - and to chaper 48. The timing of each little part of it are all different though. For most of them, you can use your imagination to decide where they fit, depending of your own opinion of how long it would take for before each moment happened.**

**98. Acceptance**

"I went to his grave." Ginny said the words before she'd fully decided to mention it. She watched, unaware she was holding her breath, as George visibly tensed.

It had been almost three months. Almost three months since the war had ended. Almost three months since Voldemort had been defeated for good. Almost three months since they'd lost their brother. Almost three months since their lives had been all but destroyed, and changed irrevocably.

"Oh." George said finally, turning to look at her. "What did you…what did you think?"

She was almost annoyed with the question. What exactly was she supposed to say? _Oh, yes, I loved it. It's just fabulous. The best grave a girl could hope for her brother._ She hated it. She hated every single inch of it, because it was Fred's. She hated the grave for existing, hated it for being necessary.

"It fits him. He'd - he'd love it."

George only nodded. Ginny hesitated, debating over her next words.

"Are you mad at me? It's OK if you are."

"Mad at you? Why would I be?" George asked her, with genuine confusion.

"Because…this was the first time I've been there. It's been nearly three months, and it's the first time I've gone to his grave. I should've been before. You should probably be mad at me."

George sighed a little, then sat down heavily on the sofa. Ginny dropped into the chair. It was fast becoming hers, this chair. When the family gathered, together, in the sitting room, she'd be in this chair. Sometimes they'd all talk, sometimes they'd listen to the wireless, sometimes they'd sit in silence. The silence was becoming less frequent now, for the family and for her.

For the first month after her brother's death, Ginny had rarely spoken to anyone, avoiding all physical contact with the people around her. She was almost back to normal, now, most of the time, which brought both guilt and relief.

"Ginny, it was over a month before I went there." George told her.

"Yes, I know." That, of course, wasn't an issue. Because it was George, who'd lost a twin, not just a brother. A twin, a best friend, half of himself. No one would have judged George if he never saw the grave. Ginny, however, saw herself as a different matter entirely. "But _three_ _months_, George, it's not -"

"Were you ready, before?" George demanded. "Could you have gone to his grave any sooner, Ginny?"

She shook her head, without hesitation. "I couldn't even go to the cemetery. The first time Ron went, I went to meet him, so he wouldn't be walking home alone. I though I'd be able to wait at the cemetery gates or something, but I couldn't even go down the street." She almost had a panic attack when she'd tried, she remembered. She'd stood at the top of the street, nearly had a panic attack, and refused to move any furthur, without shame.

"I get that. I really do." He told her honestly. "If you weren't ready before now, that's fine. If you hadn't been ready now - if it was another year, or ten years, before you could go to the grave, or if - if you could never manage it, it would be fine, Ginny. Really." He'd spent a month thinking he could never, ever make it to the grave, never look at it. And then, one day, he'd _had_ to go to it. Just had to, without understanding why.

Ginny nodded, feeling oddly sad.

"You feel…you feel any better for it? For going there?" George asked her quietly. He sounded almost hopeful, though Ginny didn't notice it. And, if she had noticed it, she wouldn't have understood that George, even through his own pain, had noticed her, and how much she'd struggled, how different she'd been, and had worried about her, just as the others had.

"I…I guess. Maybe. I sort of talked to him. I know it's a little weird, and I, I've sort of, I've said things, when I'm alone, that were - were to Fred." She flushed a little. "But it was different, being there. It felt more like talking to him, you know?"

"I know."

She shrugged. "I said some things I needed to say, and I guess I feel better for it. It's just, it's…it's hard." Her voice was barely audible now. She looked up, met his gaze bleakly. "He's really gone, isn't he?"

George nodded, and something lost and broken came onto his face, into his eyes. "Yes. He's really gone."

They sat together, in silence, for a long time. And started to accept.

--------------------------------------

Harry shifted awkwardly, and wondered if there was still time to slip out of the living room and pretend he hadn't seen anything. Percy, however, looked up and saw him.

Awkwardness settled in the room. Percy hastily rubbed his tear-streaked face with his sleeve, and Harry stared out of the window.

"Sorry. You want me to go?" For the first time he could remember, he felt out of place at the Burrow. This place was his home, for now, and had been a home to him before. Only now, however, did he feel that he didn't belong here, that he shouldn't have been wondering the house anyway, invading Percy's privacy.

"Doesn't matter. I'm fine." Percy lied. "I was just - I was…I guess it just hit me that, Fred…Fred's never coming home."

Harry nodded, his jaw set. "I know. I'm sorry." He felt like he was saying it a lot, lately, but what else was there to say?

"You lost your godfather." Percy said suddenly, looking at Harry.

"Ah…Sirius, yeah." The mention brought a slight ache.

"How long was it - how long was it before you really accepted that he was gone for good?"

"I…I don't know. It was gradual, I guess. It, it takes time, Percy, and it's hard, but it - it will get easier." God, he hoped it got easier, for everyone. He, at least, had had the distractions of the war, and then of other deaths, to shift his focus from the pain of Sirius' loss.

Percy nodded. "It feels almost worse." He said hollowly. "It's worse to understand that he's really never coming back, than before when I still...almost hoped..."

Harry didn't know what to say, and so slipped his hand in his pockets. "I know. I...It's…it's OK to move on. I mean, he'd want you to move on. To be happy." He shrugged a little, feeling even more awkward.

"Yeah. He would. He'd want it for you, too." Percy murmured. The use of the past tense still stung, but he was getting used to it, now. They all were.

Harry shrugged a little, and Percy looked at the door. With a sigh he accepted, fully, that his little brother would never again walk through it. Following his gaze, Harry felt his chest tighten, just a little, as he accepted the same thing.

----------------------

"What you doing?" Ron asked casually, rooting through the fridge. Hermione was sat at the kitchen table, leaning over a notepad, her quill moving swiftly over the paper.

"Wedding stuff. I'm making a list of everyone we'll invite. I know we said small, but there's so many people I can't imagine not inviting. People we went to school with, fought in the war with. I know it sounds stupid, but I feel obligated to invite them."

"Doesn't sound stupid. I get what you mean. If the wedding's a little bigger than we expected, it's fine." He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and started reading the list. And then felt himself go oddly cold as he read the name that shouldn't be there. Or rather, couldn't.

"I think...I think you've made a mistake. Hermione." He murmured.

"Hmm? What? Where?"

"Near the top." He turned away, unwilling to look at it any longer. Hermione looked at him once before reading her list from the top. Her parents were listed, as were Ron's, then Harry, Ginny, George, and Fred. She almost gasped, seeing his name. She'd written it without thinking, automatically, and now closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry." She murmured. "I...I guess I wasn't thinking." It broke her heart a little, to see the name that didn't belong - only it did belong, and that's what made it so difficult.

"It's OK. It's, ah, it's not easy, knowing he won't be there."

"I know. I know." She mumbled.

Ron turned back towards her. "He'd be happy, though, that we're getting married. He really would." He looked back down at her list, and fully, completely, accepted that his brother was gone. Taking the quill from Hermione, he drew a single line through the name.

The finality of it hurt them both, but it brought total acceptence.

--------------------

"I still can't believe you're going to be a dad, Bill." Charlie beamed. "_You_."

"I know. I can barely get my head round it myself. It's amazing, isn't it?"

"Yup." Stepping into the cottage, Charlie held out the bag his mother had sent him over with. "The photo albums Mum said you wanted. Any particulary reason why?"

"Fleur wants to see our baby pictures." Bill shrugged.

"Why?"

"Presumably to see what we looked like as babies. I don't know, maybe she wants to be prepared, in case the baby comes out looking like you."

"That baby would be damn lucky if it came out looking like me." Charlie replied easily.

"Not if it's a girl. Fleur? Pictures're here."

The two brother's watched as Fleur settled on the sofa and began to flick through the albums. Occasionally, one would spark a question, which would lead to an old family story.

And then she found the one of the twins.

A smile curved her lips as she looked at the two of them, identical and looking at the camera with wonder. One of them had a hand stretched out towards it, and the fingers curled into a fist and then opened again, over and over. The other was kicking out his legs. They were adorable. But knowing who they were brought an ache.

Bill chose that moment to glance over, look at the picture. And his own expression froze.

Fleur murmured an apology – for what, she wasn't sure – and started to turn the page. Bill's hand closed over hers.

"No. No, it's OK. I..It's a little hard, to see them, together, and know that...they'll never have another picture together."

"But it's nice to remember." Charlie murmured, looking down at the picture. "Remember how we used to get them mixed up? Mum and Dad always knew which one was which, but we could never tell."

"Freaked me out for a while. I thought it was creepy, the way they looked the same." Bill smiled slightly. "But once we got used to it, it was..."

He trailed off, still looking at the picture.

And then Charlie started to speak, recounting a story of the twins at three, and Bill began to chime in, both brothers grinning as they remembered. Fleur watched them, and smiled, sitting back to listen.

It was still painful, and it probably always would be. But they had accepted, and with the acceptance, the pain eased.

Fleur listened with interest to the brother they could now speak off, to the only memories they would ever have of him, knowing that it wasn't enough, not really, would never be enough, but that it was something.

------------------------

She'd known. Molly had pretended not to know what was in here, but she'd known. Even as she'd crossed the attic, ignoring the ghoul, she'd known what would be in the box. Even as she lifted the lid, some part of her mind begged her to leave it, to just walk away and leave it.

Instead, she set the lid aside, and looked down.

Their colours had faded, but none of the garments had holes in. She'd seen to that, both while her children had worn them, and then before she'd packed them away.

How could she have known then that the next time she'd see these clothes, one of her children would be dead?

Her heart ached a little, and, again, that part of her mind begged her to leave. Instead, she reached inside, withdrew a pale blue babygro. The pale green one beside it had been George's. But this one, the one she now held, had been worn by Fred.

The breath shuddered out of her. He'd been just a baby, then, his whole life ahead of him. Barely born.

He'd grown to be a man, though he'd still been her boy. And he'd still had his whole life ahead of him. Barely lived.

She almost burst into tears, because that life had been snatched away. Her boy – her baby, and the man he'd become – had been snatched away.

"Molly."

She jumped guiltily at the sound of her husband's voice, but turned to face him. "I was just – I was just -"

Arthur walked over slowly, looked down into the box, and his eyes softened with sadness. "You shouldn't upset yourself."

"The clothes don't upset me. Our son's _death_ upsets me." Though her voice spiked with anger, Arthur noticed the use of the word "our" rather than my. Even in her darkest moments, Molly had never excluded him, something he was inexplicibly grateful for.

"I'm sorry." He murmured.

"You've nothing to be sorry for." The anger left as swiftly as it came. "None of this is your fault."

"Of course it is." He said it with such simplicity that her mouth opened in surprise. When she finally managed to ask him what he meant, he avoided her gaze, looking instead at the box of baby clothes. Only a few garments hadn't been reused for Ron. Molly had been adamant that each of her children were to have a piece of clothing that was theirs and theirs only.

"I'm his father." He couldn't bring himself to use the past tense, not on that. He may not have his son anymore, but he would still always be his son. "A father is supposed to protect his children, and I didn't. It's my fault. I should have done a better job."

Molly gaped at him. Emotions over lapped each other – anger, sympathy, sorrow.

"No, Arthur. You did nothing wrong. You're an excellent father."

"I failed Fred. I didn't do enough to keep him alive -"

"Neither did I! Is this my fault, too, then? Is it my fault that our son is dead?"

"No, no, of course not. But I'm his _father-_"

Her voice softened again. "You can't blame yourself for this, Arthur. You _can't_. We were in a war, and there was nothing you could have done to stop that, or to stop Fred from fighting. Neither of us are to blame for his death."

Arthur looked at her for a long moment. "I should have -"

"No. There was nothing you could do to stop this, and I won't let you blame yourself. This – This should never have happened, but it has, and the people to blame are all dead or locked up. Please, Arthur, please don't blame yourself."

He nodded. Only nodded, and her heart lightened. Not only because she was now assured that he no longer blamed himself – or, at least, that he was on the road to it – but because that part of herself that had taken responsibility had eased.

She laid the garment back in the box, and replaced the lid.

Together, they left the attic, and a small part of their pain.


	99. Blood, Freedom, and Death

**Not exactly sure what to make of this, or what you'll make of it. Thanks for all the reviews.**

**99. Blood, Freedom, and Death**

It was the blood. The scent of it, the sight of it. It turned Sirius' stomach, even while a part of him, a part of him knew it was a dream. A lie, concocted by his own mind.

He stirred restlessly, his body twisting as though trying to escape from the dream.

He couldn't handle the blood. Never had been able to. And now, now it filled his dreams, tormenting his very soul.

Blood, blood was everywhere, and Sirius couldn't escape.

_He dreamt of blood. Everywhere, colouring the walls and floors and furnishings and fabrics of his home. House. Regulus understood the different between a house and a home, and he knew that the building where he lived, where he'd grown up, was a house. Not a home. Never a home._

_He craved that, now, in a way he never had as a child. He craved the warmth of a home, the contentment he was certain it would bring. He was far from content now._

_He could smell the blood, could taste it, he was sure he could taste it, and it made nausea roll over him. It was everywhere, blood was everywhere, and Regulus couldn't escape._

He looked down at the blood, and for a moment, just a moment, thought of James and Lily. Stupid, really. The killing curse didn't break or bruise the skin. There had been no blood that night, on the bodies, on the floor.

Still, he linked blood with death. And death was now forever linked with James and Lily.

Sirius brushed the blood away from his finger, then examined the sharp edge of his bunk that had caused the cut.

Then turned away from it, not caring. He long since stopped caring.

He no longer cared if he died or not.

_Regulus looked down at the blood, and prayed that this was another dream, just another dream. And knew it wasn't. For a moment, just a moment, he thought of running. Just running and never coming back._

_Stupid. No one could outrun the Dark Lord. He turned away from the blood, and the bodies that had spilled it, and wondered fearfully if any of the Death Eaters around him had noticed that he hadn't killed, hadn't even used his wand or knife. He was one of them, and yet he wasn't, and he hoped, hoped none of them noticed._

_He didn't want to die._

Sirius took in every detail of the picture, committing it all to memory, and then scanning the article again, hoping the words would have changed.

They hadn't. Peter – Wormtail – the traitor - the rat – was going to Hogwarts. To Harry.

He'd made himself stop, years before, wondering, worrying, picturing Harry. His Godson, James' son, Lily's son. But now – now –

He'd failed Lily and James. Been unable to stop them dying. But he'd protect the boy. Somehow.

Finally, he had something to live for.

_He was shaking. Trembling. This couldn't go on. It just couldn't. Something had to be done and he – he had to – Regulus knew it was all down to him. He felt the fear, and faced it._

_He wouldn't live through this. He knew he wouldn't. He'd do what he had to, and he'd pay with his life. And that was...that was fine. He didn't care anymore. He had nothing to live for._

Sirius plotted, he planned, and then he followed it through. He slipped through the bars, his heart pounding, dizzy with the exhilaration that came from breaking the rules. Sick with the knowledge that he was so close to freedom, and yet could be stopped at any moment.

_Regulus let them drag him, down, down, his heart pounding, his mind screaming, though he couldn't form a sound. He was scared and sick with it, dizzy with it, but a part of him felt relief. It would all be over, soon. He'd be free._

Sirius burst out into the light, and breathed what felt like his first breath. He tasted freedom.

_Regulus sank down into the darkness, and breathed his last breath. He tasted death._


	100. Struggle

**Look at that. The hundredth chapter. So, obviously, I have to thank all you wonderful people who've read and reviewed for all this time, and assure you that I don't plan on stopping this yet.**

**100. Struggle**

They were holding hands. Tightly, almost to the point of pain, though neither really noticed. The radio was blaring; those around it listened in silence, eager for any news. Occasionally, someone would laugh, quietly, for just a moment.

Laughter was scarce, these days, and no matter how often Potterwatch was amusing, most could only smile. Laughter sounded hollow, out of place.

Ginny didn't laugh. Instead, she listened with desperation to her brothers' voices. Fred and George, talking with Lee. If she closed her eyes, it was like being home, sitting in the living room, listening to them talking and laughing and joking. If she closed her eyes, it was like being normal, having a real life, instead of this horrific excuse for one.

But she didn't close her eyes. She stared at the radio and held Neville's hand tightly.

When it finished, she didn't move, but released Neville's hand as he organised the DA members. No one was allowed to walk the halls alone – it had been the first rule they'd made this year. No member was to walk the halls alone, and if another student, particularly the younger ones, were seen alone, they were to be escorted. Safety was paramount, after all, and Hogwarts was no longer safe.

Neville supervised the groups leaving, one by one, whispers goodbyes, goodnights. When everyone had gone, she still hadn't moved, and Neville began to tidy the room, as though he wasn't waiting for her to pull herself together.

She tried. Of course she tried. To swallow the lump in her throat, to bite back the sob that threatened, to stop the tears that were gathering in her eyes.

She didn't want to cry over Neville. He'd already had his fair share of people crying over him; so has she. Only last weeks, Parvati Patil broke down in tears because she couldn't quite master a jinx. Ginny had quietly taken her out of the room before most people noticed, and listened to Parvati's self-loathing rant about how she was useless, how she couldn't manage one little jinx and what good was she in the war? How was she supposed to help, to help win, help keep her sister and her friends alive, help keep herself alive?

And Ginny had hugged her, without awkwardness because awkwardness was pointless, now, here, where all the students had were each other. And told her quietly that it was one jinx, just one, and there were others that Parvati did better than anyone else in the DA. Everyone had their strong points, and their weak ones, Ginny told her. Drawing back, she looked her in the eyes. "We'll win. We'll live."

Parvati had nodded, thanked her, and took hold of Ginny's hand as they re-entered the room. Ginny supposed some would find it odd, how everyone seemed to be very close lately. The DA members could often be seen hugging, holding hands or with arms around each other. But it wasn't odd at all, really. They were thrown into a difficult situation, with only each other to depend on. They gave or sought comfort and support. People who had, once, been strangers would cry over each other. People who hadn't gotten along would hug, or cling to each other.

Ginny had, in her third year, hated Parvati, because Parvati had gone to the Yule Ball with Harry. Strange, the things that mattered when life was normal.

And only days ago, Ginny had witnessed Anthony Goldstein gripping Neville's arm after they'd had a detention together, and then breaking down in tears, from the pain of the punishment, from the strain of the situation, and because his thirteen-year-old sister was going to have a detention herself the next night, and he was sick with worry. They'd been just outside the door of the Room of Requirement; she'd been just inside, listening without shame.

While Anthony fought for and found control, Neville had told him that he'd also be in that detention, and he'd do his best to keep the kid safe, and he'd make sure she got back to her common room OK, afterwards. When the two of them had walked into the room, Ginny had been several feet away from the door, her face carefully blank.

She'd cleaned the wounds both of them had received, then she and Neville had walked Anthony back to the Ravenclaw tower before going to her own. Though Neville had never mentioned it to her, Ginny had landed herself in the same detention – recklessly, stupidly, but without regret – so that Neville wasn't the only one looking out for Greta Goldstein. (And it had scared her, when she'd seen the young girl, because Anthony's sister was so young, so small, so scared, and it wasn't right that she had to suffer this way.)

Both she and Neville were trying to stay strong for the others, because they were the leaders. And she was determined not to break down on him, not when he had so many others doing it.

But when she stood, he hugged her, and her last shred of control vanished. She sobbed over him, shaking, clinging to him. When it finally subsided, she drew back, appalled.

"I'm sorry. I -"

"Don't. You needed it. Don't be ashamed." His voice was firm, almost harsh, and she only nodded.

"I just – I just – hearing Fred and George...I don't know when I'll see them again. And, and Ron's still out there, and Harry and Hermione, and any day could be the day they..." Her words, which had been fast and rushed, stopped abruptly. She wouldn't speak of death.

"They won't. They won't." But his voice was so desperate Ginny knew he didn't completely believe it. She tried to swallow her fears and worries, but they burst out of her anyway, and she started to tremble.

"My mum, she's so scared, so worried, and I don't know how – I can't even be there for her. And Luna, God, Neville, we don't even know if she's still..."

"She is." Neville snapped it, his face white. "They've taken her to punish her dad, they're using her to stop him. If they kill her, they've lost the threat. They _won't_. And we – we'd've heard..."

She only nodded.

"It'll be fine, Ginny. It'll all be OK. It – it has to be."

"But what if..."

"No. _No_." She was scaring him, she realised, so she murmured her apologies and told herself to be stronger.

He took her hand as they left the room, much as Parvati had done. And, as she had then, Ginny wished she could draw strength, comfort, hope, from that link. And, as she had then, she couldn't.


	101. Coveted

**101. Coveted**

He watched her. He shouldn't, really. Even at his young age, he understood that spying was wrong. If his father knew he was spying on the Evans girls, he'd flip out. He already thought his young son was abnormal, and watching two young girls like this would only confirm that.

Still, he couldn't look away. Not from the redhead. The older one, he scarcely noticed. She didn't interest him. But the redhead – he couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Her face, her eyes, her long hair, billowing out like a cloud when she ran, the sound of her laugh – happy, bright, carefree.

Severus couldn't quite manage to be bright or carefree. Or happy, really. So instead, he watched the young girl – his age, he knew she was his age because he'd heard her and her sister talking about it only last week, but she seemed somehow younger and more innocent than him – and coveted her carefree happiness.

-----------------

He watched her. He'd been waiting for months – years, really – to see the castle, but as they grew closer, he watched her. And when she saw the castle, when her eyes lit and her mouth opened in awe, he smiled.

"It's amazing." Lily murmured, and grabbed his hand with thinking. "Beautiful. Don't you think?"

"Yes, I do." He murmured, his eyes on her, his thoughts on her. Wrong, he thought. It was wrong to feel like this, when she just wanted to be friends. When they'd promised only a few short weeks ago to be best friends, forever. But he couldn't help himself. He watched her, and kept her hand in his – painfully aware that she didn't even notice they were holding hands while he was intensely alert to her warm touch – and coveted her.

----------------

He watched her. She sat with a few girl friends, laughing, the sun catching her hair and making it shine. He could swear he could see the sparkle in her eyes, even from here.

She still wasn't speaking to him. He hadn't expected her to hold out this long. How could things have gotten so messed up? Yes, they'd been growing apart, bit by bit, because of his other friends. But she was still his best friend, his first friend (and, he suspected, his only real friend) and he'd been sure that she'd always be there for him.

Sure that, one day, she'd look at him and realised that he was everything she needed, wanted. Look at him and realise she belonged with him. Look at him and realise she was in love with him. Because she must be in love with him, must be, because feelings like this – like his – couldn't be one-sided. It just wasn't possible.

Right now, though, he wasn't thinking about that day. Wasn't thinking about wanted to be more than friends, about wanting to kiss her, be with her forever, wanting all the things in between. He was thinking that he missed her, desperately. That he just wanted them to be friends again.

So he watched her, laughing with her friends, and hated them because they had Lily's friendship. And he coveted what they had.

----------------------

He watched her. And he was sure he felt his heart breaking. His throat was burning with the pain of his worst fear coming true.

He knew he shouldn't watch them. It was weird, creepy, and oh so painful. But he watched Lily and Potter – _Potter, God, why Potter?­ _– walk hand in hand around the lake, stopping every few feet to kiss. Sometimes briefly, a light brush of mouths followed by a giggle. Sometimes longer, deeper, and he thought it might hurt less to just have his heart ripped out of his chest than it did to watch her kiss Potter with such – such –

His eyes filled with tears. His throat burned again, this time with sobs that he refused to release. She was giving Potter everything that should have been his. Her smile, her affection, her kisses and her heart. God, her _heart_. He could see, with ease, that she was falling for Potter.

It looked, to anyone else, like Potter was falling for her, too. But Severus knew better than that. He was just using her. Just playing with her until he found something else to amuse himself with. It wouldn't last, Severus assured himself. It wouldn't last at all. _Oh please, please don't let it last. Please don't let her stay with him. Let her come to me._

He watched her and Potter stop again, Lily laughing as Potter spun her to face him, as he smiled down at her, then felt his stomach clench as Lily rose on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Severus watched, and he coveted.

----------------------

He'd told himself he was over her. Told himself that she was a married women, now, and it wasn't right to want another man's wife. Even if that man was James Potter; even if that wife should be his.

He'd told himself Lily had made her choice, and he ought to respect that and move on. But when he saw them, in Hogsmeade – why had they chosen this day, this afternoon, to visit the little village? Why, of all days, choose the same day as him?

He shrank back into the shadows, and though he told himself to look away, he couldn't. Potter was the same as ever. Except – except brighter, somehow, happier. He looked like a man who had everything in the world.

And he did, Severus thought bitterly. He had everything in the world, everything that was worth anything. He had Lily, and more, he had her love, her heart. Her son.

It was the first time he'd seen the baby, though he now old enough to sit up on his own. To sit on his mother's lap, looking around with her eyes. Severus watched, taking in every detail of Lily's bright smile – she, too, was happy, so content without him – and of the boy. For here, if he squinted a little, he could ignore the mark of Potter on the boy's face, and pretend the child was his. Pretend Lily was his.

He watched them, that little family, watched Lily with the baby. And coveted another man's life.


	102. Sense of Safety

**Started this ages ago, been getting round to finishing it. It doesn't reflect my current mood, at all, 'cause I got my A-Level results today - an A, a B and a C, if anyone's interested. Spent all day celebrating, then decided I was in the mood to write...guess that's what alcohol does...go figure...**

**101. Lost Safety**

She'd lost all sense of safety.

Ginny's eyes darted around the darkened room, straining to make out the shapes, her mind desperately cataloguing everything she saw, her heart racing in anticipation of finding something, anything, that didn't belong.

Like the memory of Tom Riddle, smiling at her as he drained her life.

Her breath hitched, and she tugged the covers more tightly around herself. She'd arranged the pillows so she could lean back against them and still be almost sitting, able to see the whole room. She was aware of the exact position of the door, and braced to run towards it if necessary. Fear coated her throat, her heart, made her hands tremble. The kind of fear no child should ever experience.

If the door opened, she was ready to scream until someone came to help.

The door didn't open, and she saw nothing in the room that didn't belong; none of the shadows moved.

And still, she didn't sleep, because she didn't feel safe.

------------------------

She'd lost all sense of safety.

Lord Voldemort was back. God, God, he was back. She lay curled in her bed in Grimmauld Place, knowing that this was probably the safest place to be, except for Hogwarts, knowing that Dumbledore had cast the safety spells himself. But Voldemort was back, and she was terrified.

What if he remembered her? What if he remembered everything she'd poured out to Tom Riddle? She knew, rationally she knew, that it was a separate thing, that he shouldn't be able to remember her.

And still - what if he did?

And even though she knew, rationally, that even if he did remember, he had no reason to come for her, she was scared. Why would he waste his time on her? He wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't.

But she curled up in the bed, her eyes darting around the room. It had taken her almost a whole year to feel safe again after the events of her first year, and now she'd lost it.

She forced herself to close her eyes, and wondered when she'd feel safe again, as her heart pounded, coated in fear.

----------------------

She'd lost all sense of safety again. Ginny couldn't sleep, because Dumbledore was dead and Hogwarts was no longer safe without him. Voldemort could come here at any second, storm that castle and kill them all.

Or his Death Eaters could. Or the dementors. Or even the giants. Or anything else that he had control of. They could all be dead by morning.

And even if they weren't, it was only a matter of time. The world was well and truly screwed. The war would intensify, the deaths would mount, and they…

For the first time, she let herself think that they might not win this. Let herself fear that they might not win this.

Ginny lay awake for a long, long time, knowing that she wouldn't feel safe again until the war was over.

---------------

She'd lost all sense of safety. The war was over, Voldemort was dead, his followers were locked up, and still, still she didn't feel _safe_.

She stood in the back garden, getting steadily soaked by the rain, her arms around her torso. She'd disliked the rain, before, but now, now she loved it. She'd talked a lot, before, but now she barely spoke, unable to think of anything to say, unable to motivate herself to start a conversation with anyone. She'd liked being around her family, before, but now she spent a lot of her time alone in her room. She'd changed, the war had changed her, and she had no idea how permanent those changes may be.

And she had no idea when she'd feel safe again. Nothing to fear anymore, really. But every time she slept she dreamt of death, every time she closed her eyes she saw another body, every time a room was quiet, she'd hear the screams and noises of the battle. She hadn't felt safe in a long, long time, and she was scared she never would.

She'd lost all sense of safety.


	103. Remembered Moments

**103. Remembered Moments**

He opened the door slowly, trying not to wake the sleeping boy. Teddy was seven years old, and a heavy sleeper, mostly. Ron, however, seemed to have a skill for waking him up. So he tried to move the door silently, and block most of the light from the hallway with his body.

He was sprawled out on his stomach, his hair straight, messy and red, one arm flung out over the side of the bed, and the quilt tangled around his little legs. Ron smiled, and leaned against the doorframe. He loved Teddy almost like a son, definitely like a nephew, and loved having the boy stay over.

What he didn't like was the next morning, when Teddy left, and the house seemed to quiet, too tidy, and the fact that they still didn't have a child of their own was glaringly obvious.

It would happen soon, Ron assured himself. They'd been trying for two years – two long, emotional years – but he knew that it took far longer for some people. And they'd both been checked out, after all; there was definitely no problems with either or them that would stop them conceiving.

Even if there was, even if they couldn't _make _a baby, they'd discussed adoption. Agreed that, if by the end of the year they weren't pregnant, they'd look into it. It wouldn't be entirely the same, of course, but Ron was hopeful that it would be just as good.

Still, having a baby, a pregnancy, had been their dream for so long. He'd imagined all the steps – feeling the baby kick for the first time, hearing the heartbeat, and the birth. Childbirth scared and fascinated him in equal measure, and he was eternally glad he wouldn't have to go through it himself. He'd worried, back in the beginning when they'd both been sure that they'd been pregnant straight away, about Hermione having to go through childbirth. About everything that could go wrong, and the sheer pain and trauma of it.

Now, though, he worried about her because they'd been trying for so long, and she seemed to see it as a personal failure. Because everywhere they looked, there seemed to be babies. Because Harry and Ginny, and Neville and Hannah, were showing off their sons. Because he'd caught her, a few times, staring into space with a sad look on her face. He was worried because she wouldn't talk to him about how much it was hurting her, and he didn't know how to help her.

And it was killing him, just killing him, that they couldn't seem to get what they so wanted.

"Ron. Come away before you wake him." But Hermione was smiling, he noted, and grinned back as he closed Teddy's door.

"I was just checking on him."

"He's a great kid." There was a sigh in her voice, that had him going to her and rubbing her upper arms.

"It'll happen, for us." He murmured. "You know it will. I, I was thinking...Listen, it's been hell for us, struggling like this." The false alarms were the worst, he thought. Just a few months ago, they'd been so sure, so certain, and when they'd found out they were wrong, it had been like a loss.

"I know." She was still smiling. Usually, when he brought the subject up, she'd get a certain expression on her face. But now she was smiling.

"So I was thinking, ah, having a kid, that's more important than a pregnancy, right? I mean, we want a child. I know we said we'd give it another year, Hermione, but I don't think we can. I don't think either of us can handle spending another year like this, and I can't stand to see you hurting..."

"Ron." She lifted a hand to his face, her voice soft, her expression tender. "Sometimes, I can't believe how much I love you. You don't need to worry any more. I'm...I didn't want to tell you until I was absolutely sure – I know this is on hard on you as it is on me. But I'm sure. We're having a baby."

He blinked. She smiled shyly, and he blinked again. "We...I...We're preg...My God." And then his face split into a grin, and he lifted her up, spun her around the hallway, then pulled her close, held her tight. He laughed a little, and felt close to tears. "You're sure? You're - of course you're sure. God. I can't believe it."

"I know. I know." Her eyes filled with tears. "I was so scared it wouldn't happen. And I, I was thinking, like you, you know, that we can't keep living like this. But it's OK. Everything's going to be perfect now."

He kissed her head, then grinned at her foolishly. And when she laughed and kissed him, he knew he'd remember this moment, forever.


	104. Loss

**A little pointless, and a lot short, but I'm pretty much blocked lately. **

**For Dodger Gilmore, because her story _Falling in Love, Falling Apart_ made me see this relationship differently, and now it's the only way I see it.**

**104. Loss**

It was cold, but she didn't move, didn't even think of going inside. Right now, she needed the air, the cold, the solitude. She needed the sounds and scents of the lake, the trees, the creatures that lived in both. She needed to think.

Her first relationship was over.

She hadn't been in love with Michael. She may be young, but she wasn't naive enough to believe herself in love. But she'd had – still had, really – strong feelings for him. She'd cared for him, enjoyed being with him, and, sometimes, had felt dizzy around him, which had given her hope that she might, one day, tumble into love with him.

She'd so badly wanted to be in love with him.

He was one of her closest friends. Had become one almost as soon as she'd met him. He'd given her that first taste of real, complete friendship, the kind she hadn't quite found with anyone else, except perhaps Hermione, and even she was Ron's friend, Harry's friend. Michael was hers, for her, not because she happened to be someone's sister. He'd given her her first kiss, her first relationship. He'd been the first boy to hold her hand, the first one to give her flowers – well, he'd awkwardly handed her a single flower he'd plucked from the ground, but she'd treasured it the way a women might treasure a bunch of roses. He'd been the first boy outside her family that she'd felt fully, completely relaxed around. He'd been the first boy to _mean_ something to her.

And now, he'd become the first boy to truly hurt her.

She was glad, now, that she hadn't been in love with him. She'd wanted to be, because she was done being a stupid little girl with stupid little girl crushes. Or one crush, that was. She was done feeling hurt and angry and embarrassed because Harry still ignored her. She was done with being that person, and Michael...well, he'd come along at just the right time, and given her the things she'd been secretly hoping for, dreaming of. And then, instead of dreaming of falling in love with Harry, she was dreaming of falling in love with Michael. The way, she supposed now, girls her age were entitled to.

But if it hurt this much, now, her first break-up, her first taste of heartache, she could only be thankful her feelings weren't any deeper.

Stupid, she thought, and suddenly snatched up a rock, tossing it hard into the lake. Stupid of them both to end it this way. With his jealousy and her anger. With her hopes fading and her own anger preventing her from defending herself.

But they'd been fighting so much lately. Him asking, time and again, if she had a thing for Harry, the way people liked to say. Or if she had a thing for Dean, who she was developing a friendship with. And her losing patience, snapping back, accusing him of wanting more, of not trusting her, or ignoring her. The same argument, over and over, had worn away everything between them, until one last, stupid argument, had broken them. Even their friendship was gone, now, she thought, and that was worse, in some ways.

Her heart wasn't broken. No, Ginny knew her heart was far from broken. But bruised, just a little? Yes, she thought so.

She sighed a little, stared out over the lake, and mourned the loss of a relationship, and the loss of a real friend.


	105. Gryffindor Bravery

**More Ginny-centric stuff. Thanks for reviews last time.**

**105. Gryffindor Bravery**

She couldn't do it. Ginny felt her knees go weak as they walked closer and closer to the castle. Her stomach rolled, and she knew she couldn't do it.

She hadn't been able to make herself come back to finish her N.E.W.T.s, for God's sake. What made everyone so convinced that she could survive this?

They approached the gates, and some part of Ginny was screaming that she _just couldn't do it_ but she couldn't quite make the words come out. Nor could she make her feet stop moving, even as her heart pounded in panic, as her breathing hitched, once, twice, three times.

The gates opened, and Ginny, in the middle of the group, couldn't make herself stop walking in. And then the gates closed, and she felt, suddenly, the wild, crazy panic of a cornered animal.

Surrounded by her family, she found herself suddenly unable to breathe. Her heartbeat was faster and faster and she was feeling dizzy. As the edges of her vision went grey, she stumbled, turned, and pushed her way through the crowd, not even aware that she'd shoved Bill, hard, into Percy.

She took a few stumbling steps, without being really aware of her surrounding. She knew only that she had to _get away_ and right now, because there was no way in hell she could go back into that castle.

She broke into a run, was unaware that her breath was hitching, her lungs burning. And then, all at once, she could see the grounds as they had been that night, with scattered bodies. God, God, the bodies. The fear and pain and horror of the night.

Abruptly, she sat on the ground. More because her knees gave out than because she wanted to, but she made no attempt to stand. Instead, she sat, shaking violently, trying to block out the memories.

The damn place was full of memories, and only the bad ones came back to her. She wasn't aware of the first shaky sob. Some part of her mind was saying, over and over, that she needed to get away, get out of here, but when she tried to stand, her knees gave out again.

"Ginny. Ginny. _Ginny._" Ron's voice was panicky as he knelt beside her. "You're shaking. Ginny, God, look at you." Helpless, he faltered, before unfastening his cloak, and Ginny felt the first stirrings of shame as he draped it around her.

She couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't even out her breathing, or her heartbeat. Couldn't stop that wild, animal panic. Couldn't stop seeing death. Couldn't stop remembering.

_There was a boy, and though his face was familiar, she didn't know who he was. A face she'd passed in the corridor, but she didn't even know what year he was in. The face didn't even get the chance to register shock, fear, anything, as the green light hit him. And then he was down, crumpled on the floor like a discarded doll. And Ginny stumbled back, horrified, and then terrified as the Death Eater turned to her. Even as she raised her wand, she took quick steps backwards – and then the ground disappeared from under her. She fell down the stairs so fast that it wasn't until she landed, disorientated at the bottom, that she realised what had happened. She'd twisted her knee – sprained it – and the pain was making her feel sick._

She came back to herself in that moment, with the dizziness and sickness of the pain still with her. And her body jerked as she threw up.

Ron scrambled back, out of the way, and then faltered again, obviously not knowing what to do for her. When she was done, she shifted away, suddenly exhausted. Shakily, she got to her feet, and started to walk.

"Ginny. Where are you going? We need to go to the castle – the memorial thing's going to start soon -" He looked around, for anyone who could help. But Harry and Hermione were already inside helping set things up, his parents had been too involved in themselves to even notice Ginny's breakdown, and his brothers had gone inside when they'd seen him head after her.

He was alone, and it occured to Ron now that he was probably the least capable of helping. He wished for Hermione.

"I can't." Her voice was shaky. "I can't, I'm sorry. I can't do it. I can't go in there. I can't even be out here."

"OK, OK, hey, shh." It scared him, how quick and strained her voice was. Scared him that she was still shaking, that he'd seen the raw terror on her face as she'd broke away from the group. Scared him that she'd been sick.

She stopped walking, abrupty, and might have ended up on the floor again if he hadn't grabbed her. "I can't. I remember, I remember, God, God, it hurts." He hugged her awkwardly, and she let him take her weight. The phantom pain in her knee struck again. "I don't know how I got through it the first time. I can't do it again. I can't go in there." She couldn't stop the tears, either, but she couldn't quite work up the energy to be ashamed of them.

She was still so young, he thought. Not yet as old as he'd been on that night. He forgot, sometimes, just how young she was, and just how much she'd been through.

"I know." He hesitated, unsure. Everything about this made him unsure. "You'll regret it if you don't go in there. If you don't see the memorial service. For Fred, Ginny, for Fred and Tonks and Lupin and Colin all the others."

A flash, Fred's laughter, Tonks' grin, Lupin's quiet amusement, Colin's excitement. He'd been her age, she thought. Her age, and yet so much younger. She'd already had the experiences to age her, to prepare her.

Was that why she'd survived? Because she'd already been through two battles, because at the age of eleven she'd almost died and left her childhood behind?

"I can't." She whispered again.

"Ginny, just, can't you try?" When she didn't answer, he nodded. "OK. I'll take you home, then."

"I don't need you to. I can go myself. You don't want to miss this." And still, a part of her was ridiculously glad that she wouldn't be alone.

"You're not going alone."

He kept an arm around her shoulders as they started to walk, slowly because she couldn't manage to move faster. And memories kept coming at her. Of Fred, of Tonks, of Lupin. Even a couple of Colin.

And she stopped walking. "I have to, don't I?" She said tiredly. "I have to go in there." She turned, to look at the castle, bit down on a new wave of nausea. "I have to do this."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. You're right, I'll regret it if I don't. God. Don't leave me, please. Just, just stay with me."

"Yeah, 'course, I will."

She took a deep, deep breath, then started to move forward.


	106. Loss II

**More Ginny-centric. I don't know what that's all about, but I guess writing about her and Michael made me think about her and Dean. Obviously, I understand if other people see this in a different way, this is just my take on it.**

**106. Loss II**

"For God's sake, Dean, I can get myself through the damn portrait hole." She snapped it, loud enough to have several people in the common room silence and turn to look.

"I know. I was just helping -"

"I don't _need_ your help. How many times?" She had a vicious headache, was shattered, and was, quite simply, sick of him. "I've told you, over and over and _over_ that I don't need any help getting out. I've been doing it for years on my own. Stop thinking of me like a child." She turned away, stalked down the hall.

"I don't think of you like a child." He snapped back.

"Yeah? Well stop treating me like one. I _don't_ need help getting through the portrait hole, I _don't_ need you to read my homework over my shoulder and point out the mistakes, I _don't_ need you to remind me when I haven't eaten yet, or tell me every single night that it's getting late and I should go to bed. Are you my boyfriend or my mother?"

"I'm just – I just – why does it bother you so much that I help you through the hole?"

"Because it's like you think I'm incapable! And I'm not, OK, I can get myself in and out of _rooms_, Dean."

A sulky look settled on his face. "I didn't know it bothered you when I helped you with your homework."

"Yeah, well it does. It's my homework, and I'll make as many mistakes on it as I want. I don't imagine any girl wants their boyfriend reading their homework over their shoulder while they're writing it, pointing out every little thing they've got wrong."

"I don't point out every little thing."

"Yesterday you told me twice that I'd forgotten to dot an "i". I'd've gone back and fixed it for God's sake. Why do you think I keep trying to get away from you while I'm doing it? And that, that as well. If I'm not with you for every waking moment you hunt me down. I get away from you, get a minute to myself, and then – then bam, you're there. Or it's, it's, let's meet at break, Ginny. Let's sit together at breakfast, lunch, dinner, Ginny. Let's hang out in the common room all evening. I'll watch you at Quidditch practice, walk there and back with you. Hey, my lesson's near yours this afternoon, let's meet in the hallway before and after." She reached the bottom of the marble staircase, and turned to face him, her eyes blazing.

"Sometimes, I want to spend my break doing something else. Sometimes, I want to eat with my friends, or see them after lessons. And I don't need you to hold my hand when I go to the Quidditch pitch and back. I'm a big girl, I can manage to find my way."

"What are you trying to say?" He demanded.

"I'm trying to say you're suffocating me!" She cried, and turned, storming to the doors. She blinked, once, in the sunlight, then started to walk.

"If I haven't got round to eating yet, maybe it's because I don't want to eat with you, or because I'm trying to get my homework done before you can see it and bug me while I'm trying to concentrate. I don't need you to tell me when to go to bed. I can judge for myself whether I'm tired or not, thank you."

She reached the lake, threw herself down on the grass. He sat down beside her.

"You're not so perfect yourself." He said flatly. "You're so moody sometimes it's like if I breathe wrong you'll bite my head off."

"Because you wind me up so much." She picked up a rock, toyed with it. She wasn't shouting anymore; she wasn't sure if she was even angry anymore.

"And you don't even try to get to know my friends, try to get on with them."

"They're all strangers to me, Dean, and you just threw me in, expected me to become best buddies with them, and sulked when I didn't. But yeah, OK, maybe I didn't make an effort with them. Maybe that's not what I wanted. I won't deny being selfish."

"I'm not what you want, either, am I?" He asked.

She was going to lie. She was going to lie and spare his feelings. She was going to tell him he was being stupid, paranoid, turning things around on her. And then she looked at him, and couldn't.

"No. You're not."

She saw the hurt come into his eyes, pass over his face, and lowered her gaze, ashamed.

"So who is, then? Michael? Harry?"

"No. It's not – it's not a case of wanting someone else. No, Michael and me, we're over. I wish we'd ended better, but I don't regret us being over. I tried to tell you before - he'll always mean something to me, Dean, but I don't..." She sighed. "You never could understand. And as for Harry, I'm not that stupid kid anymore, dreaming over a guy who'll never notice me."

Except she'd caught him, so many times lately, looking at her. And Hermione was convinced he...

She shook her head, shook the thoughts away.

"Was I just a rebound?" He asked. She caught the use of past tense, realised that their relationship was over. Neither of them had said it, but they were both aware.

"No. I don't know. Maybe." She ran her free hand through her hair, the other still toying with the rock. "You have to understand, I'd just broken up with Michael. He was my best friend, Dean, not just my boyfriend, and I lost him. And then he ran off to Cho, and it hurt. I told you that, I told you I wasn't over it. You said that it was OK."

"I know. I thought it was. I thought you liked me."

"I did. But maybe, maybe I was using you as a way to get over him. I'm sorry for that."

He shrugged, and he refused to look at his face, not sure she could live with what she'd see there.

"You were just, you were so nice to me, so great, and I, we had fun. But we haven't had fun in weeks. You do all this stupid stuff that I just can't live with anymore. Maybe that's my fault, not yours."

"Maybe we're just not right for each other." He murmured. "I knew you'd rather be with Michael, or with Harry." She didn't bother to comment. Michael had had the same insecurity over Harry, and she couldn't really blame either of them. "Maybe that's why I held on so tight. I guess I thought if I didn't, you'd run to one of them."

"You should've trusted me."

"You flirted with me while you were with Michael, how was I supposed to trust you?" His anger leaked out, and he threw a rock into the lake with force.

"That's not fair." She shot back, hurt. "_You_ flirted with me, too, Dean, and I had a boyfriend, so what does that make you? Besides, everyone knows you chased Parvati while she was with that French guy during the Triwizard Tournament. No wonder Michael didn't trust you around me."

He opened his mouth, closed it. An apology was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite say it, couldn't quite mean it.

"I can't do this anymore. I can't be with you anymore." One of them had to say it, she knew, and she felt it should be her. "We have to end this, Dean. "

"I know." He sounded so sad, and she felt so guilty. Even more so because she wasn't sad. If anything, it was a relief. "I really care about you, Ginny."

"I know." And her throat burned, because she couldn't quite say the same. He was aware, and he looked away. "I'm really sorry. And everything I said before..."

"You meant it all." He offered her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You meant every word."

"I...Yeah, but I wish I'd been nicer about it. I was just so sick of..."

"Me." He finished, and she said nothing because he was right. "Well, it was fun while it lasted."

"I could've made it work." She said finally. "I'll take the blame, because I could've made it work."

"You just didn't want to." He murmured. "You just didn't want to be with me."

"You're a great guy, Dean, but no. Maybe I never wanted to be with you. Maybe I just thought I did." She didn't bother apologising again.

"I guess I'll see you around." He said, and stood. She nodded, and felt like slime. One day, she hoped she'd be able to apologise to him, because, she realised as he walked away, she'd used him. She'd used him to get over Michael, to forget about him and the loss and the sting of seeing him run straight to Cho. And she'd stayed with him, longer than she should of, longer than she'd wanted to, because her old feelings for Harry had started coming back – only different this time, stronger and more complex - and she hadn't wanted them. So she'd stayed with Dean, used him as a distraction, even when she hadn't wanted to. Even when he'd suffocated her, even when she'd grown to hate a million little things about him.

She'd liked him well enough in the beginning, but not as much as she'd liked Michael, not as much as she liked Harry. She hated knowing that, hated feeling it, but couldn't deny it.

She was a horrible person. A horrible, horrible person, who shouldn't even be allowed to interact with other humans. She should be locked away in some castle-guarded tower and kept away from people. She sighed and her hand, which had been still toying with the rock, stilled. Instead, she gripped it, feeling the bite of the edge in against her palm.

She'd hurt him. She hadn't meant to, she certainly hadn't set out to do so, but she'd hurt him nonetheless.

So she was back sat by the lake, feeling miserable. Second time in two years, she mused, and hoped she wouldn't do so again anytime soon.

Her second relationship had ended.

She didn't mourn the loss, didn't remember and compare the good times and the bad. She regretted. He'd meant so little to her, and he deserved better.

She sat there, alone, until Hermione found her, until she sat, silently, beside her and draped an arm over her shoulders.

She didn't mourn, just breathed the fresh air.


	107. First Sight

**I think it's been a little while, sorry about that. I've been busy with a new story, _Background Music._ And yes, that was some shameless advertising, but if I can't do that here, then where? **

**Anyway, I did consider writing a full story for this pair, but it didn't work out, so we've got this, and there might be another one or two chapters for these two coming up soon, because I sort of have a story for them. I just couldn't make it into a story, if that makes sense. This contradicts chapter 45, but its now fact in my little world. A lot of the early Jigsaw Pieces don't fit anyway.**

**Anyway, thanks for reviews, and for sticking with this thing so long. Still no plans to stop.**

**107. First Sight**

She was curled in a chair, asleep. Looking small and young and pale. Though, he supposed the Slytherin common room made almost everyone look pale. The light in here wasn't the best the castle could offer.

She was somewhat pretty, he supposed, but not in an obvious way. On the surface, she was the kind of girl you wouldn't look twice at – barely look once at, unless you'd wondered into the common room in the middle of the night and found her asleep in a chair. As Draco had. He leaned against the wall, looking carefully at her. Definitely not eye-catching. But her skin was clear, from here at least, and, once you looked closely, you could see that pretty, just underneath. Just a little.

Not his type. He preferred beauty, obvious, classic beauty. And curves. She was skinny, and flat in all the wrong places. And she seemed to be a good few years younger than him, which definitely ruled her out. He didn't have any interest in children.

Still, he found himself focusing on that face, without being able to explain it to himself. She was barely pretty, after all. And only, only if you looked hard enough. Almost any girl was pretty if you looked for it enough.

As he watched, she stirred, and her eyes flickered open. And there, he thought, was the hook. Those eyes, surely, would catch attention? Would create that second look? A deep, smoky blue, big without being unattractively huge, and framed by dark lashes. Looking at them, he wondered how he'd never noticed her before. Granted, he didn't go around staring into the eyes of other students, but, looking at her now, he found it odd that he'd never seen her before.

They focussed on him, and he let a lazy smile spread across his face. Confusion passed across her face, chased by embarrassment, and then recognition.

He felt the smile fade as the recognition slipped into wariness.

"Didn't mean to wake you." He told her coolly. She shifted in the chair, enabling herself, he was sure, to jump up and run from him if necessary. Disgusted, he turned back, headed for his dorm without a second glance. Of course she was wary, scared. He was Draco Malfoy, _Death Eater_. What did he expect, when the dark mark was still visible on his arm? When the whole school knew that the Dark Lord had lived in his house? When there were whispers, rumours, of what the Dark Lord had made him do.

He handled it. The stares, the whispers, the way people would move out of his way in the corridors, the way first years would look at him with fear, or the way other students would glare, would whisper disgusted insults to him. The way a fifth year, last week, had spat at him and called him a murdered. He'd be free in a few more months, away from the school with the qualifications that didn't seem nearly worth it. Until then, he could handle it.

Just like he handled the nightmares.

He threw himself down on his bed, and thought bitterly that the nightmares were the reason he'd even gone into the common room and scared some young girl. He'd dreamt of fire, of death, of screams and of Voldemort. He'd woken covered in sweat, shaking and panting, his heart racing, and he'd just, barely, prevented a scream from ripping out of his throat.

He hadn't wanted to sleep again, so he'd gone to the common room.

And now, he lay wide awake, and thought about the young, pale, girl with eyes that, for some reason, he doubted he'd ever completely forget.

And in the common room, Astoria Greengrass sat, now wide-awake, in a chair, and thought of Draco Malfoy, with mixed feelings.

--------------------------

He didn't want to be at the party. Wouldn't have been, if his mother hadn't all but begged him. What Draco wanted was to be at home, alone with his thoughts.

Where he'd depress himself, he admitted. Tell himself what an awful person he was.

He'd stopped his nights of drinking, those nights where he'd throw back any alcohol he could get, until he couldn't stand, speak, think, feel. He'd stopped waking up in unfamiliar beds with unfamiliar women. He had Ginny Weasley to thank for that, though he'd never admit it.

Finding him in the street during the Easter holidays, when he'd been re-doing his seventh year of Hogwarts, she'd giving him the lecture no one else had managed. Not his father's quiet, disapproving words, nor his mother's anxious concerns. She had ordered him to sort himself out, ordered him to live, because he was lucky enough to still have a life. There'd been anger, disgust, and more, in her tone. Grief, he supposed. And she'd gotten him home, and he'd, slowly, sorted himself out. Now, he thought mildly that it hadn't been that big a thing, anyway. Those months before Hogwarts had reopened, he'd gone of the rails, yes. But when he'd gone back to Hogwarts, it had only been in the holidays that he'd been like that. Ginny had caught him on a bad night, and somehow managed to end it, once and for all. Not that he would ever tell anyone that, of course. He didn't imagine she would, either.

He'd even kicked the self-harming habit he'd developed. He had a way to go before his self-respect came back, before his guilt faded completely, before his periods of depression finally stopped. But he'd stopped his self-punishment, his attempts to purge and clense himself. He was finally starting forgiving himself, and his dark moods were fewer and farther between.

He was living some of the life Ginny had ordered him to. He'd finished Hogwarts, got himself a job, even managed to buy a house. He hadn't yet married and produced the son expected of him, but he'd get there one day. He was only twenty-three, no rush.

He glanced around the room, sipping a drink, refusing to admit that he was better off down here and miserable, than alone and brooding.

Setting the glass down, he tugged absently at his sleeve. His arms were littered with marks, scars from his old habit. Someday, he'd get rid of them, magically erase them. But for now, he wasn't ready. That was something he couldn't explain, and something he chose not to question.

He looked around, seeing familiar faces and carefully avoiding meeting eyes. Then he saw her.

She was still skinny, and young, and not at all eye-catching. Plain, scarcely noticeable, in modest, light blue dress robes, her blonde hair tied back, her make-up subtle. But the eyes, they were the same, he noted, moving towards her. Definitely the same. He'd never forgotten her, never forgotten her eyes.

It was only when he stopped, stood in front of her, that he realised he'd managed to forget – until now – the fear he'd sparked in those eyes. He thought about moving away from her, before he scared her again – but too late, she was looking at him curiously.

"Good evening." She said formally, and offered her hand. "Astoria Greengrass."

He smiled at the sound of her name, without really knowing why. They went through the familiar routine of introducing themselves. He'd met her parents, her sister, and wondered absently why he'd never officially met her before.

"I remember you." He said casually. "From Hogwarts. I went into the common room one night, and you were -"

"Asleep in the chair, yes." She inclined her head, her polite tone and cool gaze hiding the innate shyness that she still struggled with, the shyness that had made her avoid many of these types of events. "You smiled at me, said you hadn't meant to wake me, and then glared, and stormed off. I always wondered what I'd done to annoy you."

He shifted, almost awkward. "You, ah, you seemed afraid of me. I was...annoyed at myself, not you. Annoyed at what I'd done, what I'd made myself into. Someone who scared children." He didn't quite know what to do with his hands.

"I was hardly a child." She said, in the same formal tone. He found it amusing. He'd always been able to bring out the formal tone when necessary – it was in the breeding, in the training – but it seemed so natural to her, so ingrained. "Only a few years younger than yourself. I was sixteen, at the time."

"And I was nineteen, so you were more a child than I." He replied, in a similar formality. If she wanted to play it this way, he would too. He found it almost fun, anyway, playing this role.

"Be that as it may, I was -"

"OK, not a kid." He smiled at her. "There's something about you, Miss Greengrass. I can't explain it, but there's something..."

She sipped her drink, trying to ignore the discomfort his intense gaze brought, and the intrigue.

"I can't imagine what that is, Mr Malfoy. If you'll excuse me..."

"Draco." He said, watching her. Made her nervous, he noted, but not scared. She wasn't afraid of him. He took her hand. "It's Draco."

She very nearly flushed, and, due to her annoyance at that, couldn't quite smile. "Right. Yes. Draco."

He released her hand, then watched her cross the room. She went to her sister, he noticed, and watched the interation; Daphne's concern, then amusement. And he made a mental note to ask his mother what she knew about Astoria Greengrass.


	108. Generation 25

**Just for fun. Links in with one of my other stories, _Child of War_, but it's not even nearly necessary to have read that.**

**Mitch, in case you don't remember, is Neville's son, in my world.**

**Thanks for reviews guys.**

**108. Generation 2.5**

The castle doors opened, slowly, held for a long moment, then closed. Though there was every appearance that the doors had opened by themselves, two boys had exited the castle, hidden underneath an ancient invisibility cloak.

It was a foolproof way of making sure they wouldn't get caught. Not, of course, that they would have anyway. James Sirius Potter did not get caught. Mostly.

"You swear you didn't tell anyone?" Mitch, James' oldest, closest friend hissed. "Not even Fred or Lou?"

"No, I told you." James whispered back. They were both short enough to fit easily under the cloak, with plenty of room to spare. And they both secretly looked forward to the days they'd be tall enough to make it difficult. Being tall, after all, had to be pretty awesome. "Teddy told me about it ages ago, and...well, I didn't want Fred and Lou to go in there before us."

"Are you going to tell them?" Mitch asked, his gaze sliding over the empty grounds. Not that he was scared of getting caught, or getting into trouble. It was just that, with his dad being not only a teacher but the head of his house, getting into trouble at school meant getting in trouble with his dad. Which, in Mitch's opinion, was completely unfair.

"I don't know." James replied honestly. It seemed almost stupid, and he wanted to see the state of things, think it all through, get Mitch's opinion before he decided. When a guy was more than a full year younger than his cousins, and a lowly first year, he had to be careful. "Move faster, will you? I'm freezing."

"That's 'cause we're outside in the middle of October." Mitch muttered. "Why didn't you think of this in September when it was still almost warm?"

"Because we were busy with the castle. We needed to learn our way around it." James replied impatiently. "Hurry _up_ will you?"

"Yeah, yeah. I could be in bed right now, warm and asleep."

"You _said_ you wanted to check this place out. I could've come on my own."

"Yeah, well." Was the best Mitch could manage. And in truth, he did want to see it.

Eventually, they stopped in front of the ancient tree. Pulling off the cloak, they both looked at it, and stepped forward, only to jump back when a branch swung swiftly towards them.

"Look for the knot." James hissed, crouching down and staring at the trunk. Mitch lit his wand, and trained the beam on the bark. Another branch swung towards them, missing by inches.

"There. I see it." Mitch whispered, and grabbed a stick, jabbing quickly at the knot. The tree froze, and both boys excitedly moved closer. "Ew." Mitch muttered, and brushed the cobwebs aside with the stick. "You go first."

"Why me?"

"This was your idea." Mitch replied easily. Unable to deny it, James sighed then crawled forward. His disappeared into the hole; without hesitation, Mitch followed.

They hurried along the passageway, joking and bickering, then pausing in disgust at the other entrance, which was covered in more cobwebs.

Finally, they emerged in the main room of the shrieking shack.

"This place is gross." Mitch said finally, looking around.

"Yup." James, equally unimpressed, stared for a moment at what he was sure was a faded blood stain. "Teddy and his friends used to hang out here all the time. He once said it was like a cooler version of a clubhouse."

"I really, really don't want it to be ours." Mitch said flatly. A massive spider skittered across the floor. Though James was adamant that he wasn't afraid of spiders, he sure all hell didn't want one near him, especially one that size.

"Me neither." Still, he shone his own wand lit over the walls, until he found what he was looking for. He moved swiftly over to it, and read the words carved into the dirty wall.

"The Marauders. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs." He read aloud. Mitch crossed the room to join him, as James continued. "James loves Lily, Sirius is God, Remus will rule the world."

"Sirius, James, Peter, Remus." Mitch added. "Lily loves James, Marauders till death."

"Give 'Em Hell Kid." James read with a grin.

"Weird, isn't it?" Mitch murmured. He jabbed a finger that the phrase "James loves Lily". "Your granddad wrote that. He stood right here and wrote it, when he was, what, three, four years older than us?"

"I know. And Teddy wrote that one." James added, pointing at the name _Teddy_, carved a little way over. "He brought Jake here, in their first year. Then they brought Lainey." He indicated the names _Jake_ and _Lainey_ that were written with Teddy's. Above them, Teddy had carved _Maurarders: Generation II. _"Guess they didn't have anything else to add, but they got their names in."

"We should write ours." Mitch said finally. "I'm not going to spend my time here, but we should write ours."

"Yeah." James drew out his pen-knife, carved in his name, then stood back while Mitch did his own. "What are we?" He asked. "If they were T_he_ _Marauders_, and Teddy and everyone were _The_ _Marauders: Generation two_, then what are we?"

"Um..." Mitch hesitated, then began to carve above their names. When he stood back, the words _The Marauders: Generation 2.5 _glinted in the wand light. "'Cause we're like, the third generation, but closer to Teddy's age than our parents are, see?" He explained.

"Yeah." And James grinned. "It's great."


	109. Kill and Save

**109. Kill and Save**

He'd killed a boy today. That was the reason James Potter was stood outside, in the cold, in the dark, looking at his little house. His wife and baby son were inside, safe, warm, and James couldn't quite bring himself to go inside yet.

He'd killed a boy. It wasn't the first time he'd killed. James had, after all, gone straight from school into the order. He'd killed twice before now. Both times, both times had been necessary, absolutely. Once to save himself, once to save a stranger. He'd taken a life to save another, and though he'd suffered for it – still did, maybe always would – he couldn't quite regret it. Not the act itself. The circumstances that led to it, sure. They were regrettable, they were detestable, and if he could, somehow, make it so that Voldemort never existed, and therefore there had been no need to kill those people, he would. But the circumstances were what they were, and James couldn't quite regret doing what he had to.

But this was different. This was a boy. His face had been so _young_, his body skinny, his eyes lit with the excitement of the battle. He had to be only eighteen, James thought now, as he had at the time. It had been an awful moment, seeing the youthful face and the excited eyes. The boy couldn't, surely he couldn't have understood what he was doing? But he'd been there, with the other Death Eaters, fighting and trying to kill, and laughing as he did so. God, laughing. Would he ever forget that? That young and terrible sound?

He'd killed him. It had all happened so fast, but James would never forget it. He'd experienced enough to know that, tonight, he'd dream of it while he slept. That for the next few weeks he'd be unable to stop himself replaying it all in his head, over and over, plagued by what-ifs. What if he'd found another way? What if he'd gotten there just a few minutes earlier? What if he hadn't gone into the room alone? What if...?

He'd had to do it. James rested a hand heavily on the garden gate, and accepted that fact. That boy, that young, corrupted boy, had turned his wand on a child. A terrified little girl – three? Four? She couldn't have been any older than that – and laughed as she cowered in fear. He and his fellow Death Eaters had stormed her house, ready to kill her, and her parents, and would have if the order hadn't gotten word and reached the house right after them. Her parents, along with Sirius and Remus and a couple others, were fighting off the ones downstairs. James had followed a hooded figure upstairs, knowing there was a child up there. And in the child's bedroom, that boy had turned his wand on the little girl – a baby, hardly more than a baby – laughed at her, and opened his mouth, started to say the killing curse.

James would never understand that. The child had done nothing wrong. She was an innocent, a complete innocent. But Voldemort had some problem with her parents, so the boy was going to end her life. Just like that.

He hadn't hesitated. Why would he have? A baby's life was at stake, and he hadn't hesitated, raising his wand and trying to stun the boy. It had taken only a heartbeat; James had always been fast.

He'd missed. The stun had skimmed by the boy, missing its mark, but distracting him. Stopping him from completing the curse, causing him to turn. The baby, the little girl, had taken her moment and ran, crawling under a little table. A little white table displaying toys and teddies. The boy had turned to James – that had been the moment he'd seen the youth, the eyes – and snarled something, sending out a curse that had forced James to throw himself backward in order to avoid it. And in that moment it had taken him to straighten himself, the boy had turned away, smirking as he saw the baby, barely hidden and without a hope of surviving.

And instinct, the battle instinct that James had developed and perfected over the last few years, had caused him to aim his wand, and say the killing curse.

Kill the boy, save the baby. Because he'd known that it was the only way to insure the little girl would live.

He'd nearly vomited. He'd killed a boy, after all, a Death Eater barely out of school. But he'd fought back the bile, swung his wand towards the door to make sure no one was there, no one was rushing to investigate. But from the sounds downstairs, the battle was keeping everyone busy. James had closed the door, locked it magically, in the hope that it would give him enough time to get the little girl out. And he'd walked, slowly, over to the sofa, crouched down.

She was crying. Her eyes were wide and full of fear, her body trembling violently, and tears streaming down her face. "It's OK." He'd whispered. "It's OK, now. He won't hurt you. Will you come out now?"

She'd shook her head, and a sob had escaped her. It had broken his heart, that moment. The little girl, terrified, who'd escaped death by a heartbeat, sobbing in fear and so obviously waiting for him to hurt her.

"It's OK. I promise you, it's OK. I won't hurt you. I'm one of the good guys." He'd flashed her a grin, one females had been unable to resist for his whole life. "I stopped him. Remember? I stopped him hurting you. If you come with me now, I'll get you outside and away and safe." _Somehow. Please let there be some way of getting her away and safe._

She'd crawled out slowly, and into his arms. He'd stood up carefully, and she'd wound her arms around his tightly around his neck. And he'd heard footsteps on the stairs. Too quiet, he'd realised then. It was too quiet downstairs. So he'd shifted the tiny little girl, trained his wand on the door. She was his mission, now, getting her out safely. He'd do what he had to. She was a baby, for goodness' sake.

The door had opened, and Sirius had stepped through it, sweeping the room with his wand. He'd taken in the scene quickly; the dead boy, the little girl. "You alright? The kid?" He'd waited for James' nod, then relaxed just a little. "'S'over. Three dead downstairs, two got away." He nodded towards the little girl. "Kid's dad took a hit; Remus is taking him to St. Mungo's. Mother's holding up. She was trying to get up here, to the kid, but I figured I ought to check it out first." He'd looked back at the dead body on the floor between them.

"He was so young, Sirius." James had murmured. "Can't have been that long ago that he was at Hogwarts."

"He made his choice. C'mon. Dumbledore's got a safe house for them."

So he'd carried the little girl downstairs, handed her to her sobbing mother, accepted the thanks, the gratitude, and left the bodies. Sirius had sent him home, assured him that they'd deal with the bodies. And, because he'd killed a boy, James had left.

Kill the boy, save the baby. God.

He looked at the house for another long moment. Lily had fallen in love with it as soon as they'd seen it. So had he. It was small, though, and Lily was determined they'd have more children. Harry wouldn't be an only child. She'd said they'd have to move eventually, when they expanded their family. He thought now that maybe they could just add on to this one. It was theirs, after all. Their first home together, and neither wanted to leave. He was pretty sure he could add on to it, create room. Because he, too, was determined they'd have more children.

And determined that those children would grow up in a safe world.

Finally, he opened the gate, walked up the little path, and through the door. The warmth hit him in the hallway, and the familiar scent of home. He rubbed a hand down his face, then turned to the living room doorway, just as Lily walked to it. Her face showed relief – he was home, he was safe – but one look at him had that fading into sympathy. "It was a bad one." She murmured.

He nodded. "Saved them. Father took a hit, but he should be OK. The mother's fine, the kid's fine." He'd tell her, in a minute he'd tell her, but he couldn't say it just yet. Instead, he climbed the stairs, walked into his son's room. Harry was sleeping, innocent and unaware. So James watched, his hands resting on the edge of the cot.

"You'll be safe. I promise." He murmured. "If it kills me, you'll grow up in a safe world. This is for you. It's so you can have siblings, and a safe house, and a happy life."

He heard Lily walk up behind him, and she slipped her arms around his waist.

"I killed a boy." He murmured. "He was just a boy, and he was going to kill the baby. So I killed him."

"You did what you had to." She murmured. "You saved the baby?"

"Yeah. She must've only been three, four at most. He laughed while he pointed his wand at her. He'd've killed her, and walked away without regretting it. I killed him Lily, and I walked away, and I can't regret it. So what's the difference between me and him?"

"He laughed." She murmured, and put aside her own horror at the thought. "He laughed, and he'd have killed that baby, James, and he'd think nothing of it. Except maybe pride, maybe pleasure. You ended his life to save hers, you suffered while you did it, and you'll never forget it. That's the difference." He turned, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. "That baby's with her mother tonight, alive and safe, because of you."

Killed the boy, saved the baby, he thought. If it was one or the other, he'd made the right choice. And still, he'd always suffer for it.

"I just want it over." He whispered. "It just want it all over." And how many more children, he wondered, would die before it was?


	110. First Break

**Well, I said they'd be more on these two. They'll be another chapter when I get round to it. Thanks a lot for all the reviews.**

**110. First Break**

She was smiling when she let herself into the house. Even though she knew Daphne would be waiting up for her, and she'd have to face that disapproving look. Even though she knew that, were her parents to hear that she was seeing Draco Malfoy, they'd be worried. Once a Death Eater, they'd think, and nothing Astoria could say would convince them otherwise.

Her parents may be pure-bloods, they may look down a little on muggles, but the war, the persecution, had shocked and disgusted them.

"Astoria. Are you planning to stand in the hall grinning all night?" Daphne's voice, casually amused, had her jumping and looking up the stairs with a sheepish smile.

"No. I was just..."

"I know. You, ah, had a good time, then? With Malfoy?"

"Yes." Astoria heard her voice cool, even as Daphne's expression became critical. And it saddened and angered her all at once that they couldn't seem to get past this disagreement. That, though they'd always been close, this was creating space between them. "I had a great time with Draco." She dropped her bad onto the table beside the front door, and headed back to the kitchen.

The house was smaller than the one they'd grown up in, and both sister's occasionally craved the space they used to have, the endless, elegant rooms. But when Daphne had decided to move out, find her own place, and asked if maybe Astoria wanted to go with her, she hadn't hesitated. Even if she'd never understood exactly why Daphne had been so eager to leave, the idea of being at home without her seemed extremely wrong. So they'd moved into the smaller house, and enjoyed it.

"You'll see him again, then." Daphne said, hovering in the doorway while Astoria looked through the fridge.

"Yes." Impatient, Astoria slammed the fridge door, and spun round to face her older sister. "I've been seeing him for months, Daphne, why wouldn't I see him again? Why do you _hate_ him so much?"

"I don't." Daphne snapped. "But, for Merlin's sake, Astoria, he was a Death Eater."

"I think "was" is the key word in that sentence, Daphne." Astoria replied coolly. "He was Death Eater, years ago. He was barely sixteen."

"And he was seventeen when You-Know-Who moved into his home. He _lived_ with him, Astoria."

"Yes, and Draco still -" She broke off, lowered her voice. "He still suffers for that. He never asked for You-Know-Who to live in his house, Daph. And he still..." She stopped herself before saying that Draco had nightmares, aware that he was humiliated by them. "He regrets."

"Regretting isn't enough, though, is it?" Daphne replied. "His father was well into the inner circle. Everyone knows that. His father was in Azkaban!"

"So? Years ago, Daphne. A lifetime ago. And Draco doesn't deserve for you to hate him because of one bad decision -"

"One bad decision? Is that what you call it? Wake up, Astoria. Being a Death Eater isn't one bad decision. You don't know what he did while he was under You-Know-Who's command. Do you? I bet he's never told you."

"No. He doesn't like to talk about it, which is perfectly understandable."

"Oh, yeah, it is. Think of this, Astoria." Daphne said quietly, her gaze steady on her sister's. "Death Eaters killed. Did Draco?"

Astoria felt herself go cold, felt her mouth open, and saw something close to sympathy pass over Daphne's face. "No. Of course not. He – he couldn't..."

Daphne only shrugged, then turned and left.

And for a long time, Astoria stood in the kitchen, one hand braced against the counter, staring blindly at the wall.

--------------------

She didn't want to ask. Didn't want to even bring up the subject, to see that look come into his eyes. But it had kept her up half the night, and no matter how many times she'd told herself that this was just what Daphne had intended, she couldn't ignore the question.

So she'd ask. She'd brave that look – the pain, regret, and fear the look conveyed – and ask. And she'd deal with the answer.

Oh, God, what if he said yes?

She rang the doorbell, and forced a smile when he answered himself. The look of annoyance, impatience, faded into surprise and pleasure when he saw her.

"Hi. Did we have -"

"No, no plans. I just, um, I need to talk to you." And she hated that she felt stupid and awkward, even as he waved her into the house, kissed her in greeting. And as he led her to the library, she almost chickened out.

But as she settled down, Daphne's words echoed in her head. _Death Eaters killed. Did Draco?_

"I need to ask you something." She said, before she could stop herself. "I don't want you to be angry with me, because I need to hear the answer. I need to ask."

He sat down opposite her. "It's about before, isn't it? During the war."

"Yes. I'm sorry to bring it up, Draco, I really am. But Daphne...Daphne asked me something last night, and I, I didn't know the answer. I mean, I thought I did, thought it was obvious but...I need to hear it, from you."

"You know what I was, Astoria." Draco murmured. "You know who I was."

"And that's not a problem for me. But I need to know, Draco, I need to know if you killed."

For a moment, he looked blank, as though he didn't understand the question. And then he flushed, lowered his gaze.

"You're angry." Astoria said. "I'm sorry -"

"I'm not angry." He said, and raised his head, met her eyes again. "Of course you had to ask." He blew out a breath. "No. No, I never killed, Astoria. I promise you. I was prepared to. When the Dark Lord first..." His hand moved, unconsciously, to his forearm, to sit over the faded Dark Mark under his sleeve. "He wanted to me to kill Dumbledore. You knew that. I told you."

"Yes. And you didn't. Couldn't."

"No, I didn't. Maybe I could've. Maybe. But I didn't. And then, when he was in our house, he, ah, he made me torture people. Whenever he felt it necessary, or just wanted to. He could've done it himself, of course, but it was...I suppose it was amusing for him to make me do it. But I never killed. I would've, if it came down to killing or being killed. I imagine I would've. But I never did."

She nodded, relieved, immensely. "I didn't – I never thought you did. I just had to ask."

"Of course." He stood, crossed to the fireplace, flicked his wand to bring flames into it. And watched them. And knew. "The plant died." He told her.

"What?"

"That plant. The one I got last week. They said it was easy to take care of. Practically impossible to kill. It's dead. I suppose I killed it."

"That's OK." She told him, baffled.

"Mmm. The plant wouldn't agree. I suppose that just shows who I am. What I am. Destructive. We're destructive. Malfoys. Look at my father. Look at me."

"Draco -"

"We need to break up, Astoria." He turned round to face her, caught the shock and confusion. "I've been trying to work myself up to it for a few days now. Since the plant died. I don't want to. God knows. You're the best thing in my life. But we have to end it."

It was killing him. But he'd let it go too far now, let her fall in love with him, and that was too far. She'd been too good for him all along, and he'd selfishly persisted, knowing that. And now, he couldn't have her near him, knowing that, eventually, he'd destroy her, just like he'd destroyed the plant.

"This because you were a Death Eater." She said finally. She sounded annoyed, more than anything, he noted.

"That's – it's part of it. I don't want you to be with a former Death Eater, Astoria. That's not the kind of person I want you to be with."

"And I don't get a choice in this?"

"No. No. I'm sorry. I never killed a person, Astoria, but I did so many things that I shouldn't have."

"And it's stupid, don't you think, to blame the man for the boy's mistakes?"

He looked at her blankly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what that means." She told him. "You told me, when we met, that I'd been a child that first time you saw me. Remember? I had been sixteen, then, and you claimed that made me a child."

"It does. You were. Sixteen – still a kid."

"Oh, I agree." She said, with a slight smile that told him he'd just made a mistake. "And tell me, Draco. How old were you when Lord Voldemort put his mark on you?"

He jolted. His body actually jerked. More, he supposed, at the sound of the name – that name – coming from her, than anything else.

"Don't say it. Don't say his name, Astoria." He murmured.

"Why? I'm not afraid to speak of it. I'm not afraid of him, Draco. He's been dead for years, and he won't hurt us again. It doesn't hurt me to say his name."

Then she looked at him, really looked at him, and her expression softened. "But it hurts you to hear it, doesn't it? I'm sorry, Draco. But he's gone, now, long gone. There's no need to -"

"You don't _know_." He replied. "You weren't a part of it, you didn't see, didn't hear. God, Astoria, I saw him kill, I heard people scream as he tortured them – and I tortured people myself."

"A boy. A child, Draco, barely sixteen and too scared to refuse him. What else could you have done?"

"Anything. Anything else. I could've run."

"And he'd have found you and killed you. You know he would've."

"That's not the point -"

"It is the point. I won't blame you for a child's decisions. For a child doing what he had to, to live. He'd've killed you if you'd refused him."

"But if I'd've killed, for him, to stop him killing me, you would've held that against me, wouldn't you? You wouldn't stay with me, knowing I was a murderer. Knowing that _the boy_ had killed."

"I don't know." She replied honestly. "I don't know what I would've done. But that doesn't matter -"

"It does. You need to leave. You need to leave, Astoria, and never come back. You need to stay away from me, to have a life, a real, happy life, away from me."

"You're serious. You're actually serious."

In answer, he turned away from her.


	111. Family Pictures

**111. Family Pictures**

"What are you doing?"

James Sirius Potter, fourteen years old, jumped violently and dropped what he was holding. Turning his head, he rolled his eyes at his sister.

"Jeez, Lily, why don't you just jinx me next time? You scared me half to death."

"Al, he's up in the attic." She called over her shoulder, then turned back to James. "What are you doing?" She repeated. "You're supposed to be watching us. Mum and Dad won't be home for another hour."

"So?"

"You said," Albus joined in, appearing behind Lily, "that you'd watch us while they were gone. You promised you'd be good if they didn't get a babysitter." The sceptism in Al's voice was obvious.

"Like you care. You didn't want a babysitter either." James told him.

"Yeah, but if you're up here, you're not watching Lily." Albus said flatly. "And _I'm _not babysitting her."

"I'm not a baby. I don't need a babysitter." Lily interrupted loudly.

"Go away, will you? I'm busy." Dismissing them, James turned back to the box.

"Doing what? Going through boxes of old junk?" Lily asked, clearly unimpressed.

"No. Well, kinda. But I found pictures."

Instantly, his brother and sister were beside him. He didn't bother resenting sharing this with them; in fact, he preferred their company. So the three of them settled on the dusty attic floor, and pulled out a handful of photographs.

"That's mum." Lily murmured, pointing to a picture of a tiny baby, wearing a pink babygro and hat. She smiled slightly at it, and James shifted to the next one.

And there were four of the Weasleys, as children. Albus let out a delighted laugh, Lily grinned, and James scanned the faces with a smile. Their mother was a baby, evidently screaming her lungs out. Ron, a toddler, was looking at her with what might have been fear, while Fred and George, identical little boys, looked amused.

"That's Uncle Fred." James murmured, pointing at the twins. "One of them. I don't know which. Weird, isn't it?"

"Very. You can tell that's Uncle Ron, can't you? He looks sort of the same." Lily grinned, then pointed at the next boy.

"How do you think Grandma got them to stay still long enough?" Al asked. "Look, the twins keep moving, and mum's screaming."

"Uncle Ron looks like he doesn't want to be there. He looks scared, doesn't he, of mum?" Lily added.

"Grandma maybe threatened them. Or bribed them. Bribing works." For a moment, the three of them looked at the picture in silence, then turned to the next.

The twins were a few years older, grinning, and covered in mud. In the next, Ron and Ginny, maybe around five and six, were sat side by side, wearing little jumpers with their initials on.

"Grandma's Christmas jumpers." James grinned. He had a drawer in his dresser filled with every Christmas jumper he'd been given.

"That looks so sweet." Lily commented. "It's a great picture."

There were more, of course, countless pictures of the Weasleys, and, when James reached for another handful from the box, they found some of their father.

"That'd be the first time he was there." Albus said. "That summer – remember, with the flying car?" He and Ron were sat at the table, plates of food in front of them, talking and laughing. The next one again showed a number of airborne teenagers, sat on broomsticks at varying height.

"That's Dad, there, and Mum, and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione -" Lily said brightly, pointing.

"She's awful at Quidditch, she says so herself. I can't believe they let her play -" James smirked.

"I wonder if they even knew the picture was being taken, it's from the ground, isn't it?"

"They probably didn't." James nodded, a shifted the photo to the back of the pile, revealing the next. This one was older, and a little tattered at the edges. And though their parents, aunts and uncles were absent, there were four familiar teenage boys.

"That's Dad's dad." James said, pointing to one of them. "Look, you can see, he looks just like him. And you, Al."

"That's your smile, though." Lily said, staring at it. "I've never seen this one. How come it's not in Dad's album? He's got pictures of his parents."

"This isn't his parents, though, is it? Look, there's Sirius Black, and that's Teddy's dad, and that's the traitor."

"They look happy, though." Albus murmured. "Weird, isn't it, that a few years later, one was dead, one was in prison, one was hiding as a rat and the other was alone."

"Really weird." James muttered, and shifted pictures again. There were a few more of their family, older, after the war.

"Look at that." James murmured, turning the page again. It was another shot of the Weasley children, clearly a few years after the first, and this time with all seven of them. "Christmas again. They're all wearing the jumpers."

"They look ridiculous." Al smirked.

"They look adorable." Lily corrected. "What's Mum there? About four? Look at her grin." The young girl was grinning at the camera, showing her teeth, her eyes sparkling.

"Looks like. So Uncle Ron'd've been 'round five," James said, indicating the boy beside their mother, who had an arm around her and a teddy bear tucked under the other, "and Uncle George – and Uncle Fred -" And it was always just a little weird to think of the uncle they'd never met – "would've been seven?"

"I think so." Albus nodded. "Um, so Uncle Percy," he pointed at the boy, who was waving out of the picture, "would he have been nine?"

"Dunno. Think so." James shrugged. "That'd make Uncle Charlie about twelve, right? And Uncle Bill about my age. He looks taller than me. And they both look bored, don't they?"

"It's weird to see them young." Lily remarked. "And, if you look at the family picture we have downstairs, that's got Grandma and Granddad and all our Aunts and Uncle and cousins, this one looks almost empty."

"But it's got Uncle Fred." Albus said. "Do you think that's why it's up here, and not with the pictures downstairs?"

"It doesn't belong up here." James murmured.

-------------------

Later, when Ginny and Harry were home, and Ginny went straight upstairs to take off high heeled shoes she called torture devices, James followed her up.

She was sat on the edge of her bed, pulling off her shoes. Her eyes were a little over bright from the alcohol she'd drank, though James knew that she wasn't drunk. She smelled of perfume, and her makeup was just a little smudged, her hair just a little messy. And she looked like she'd had fun, James though, smiling a little.

"Mum? Did you have a good time?"

"Yeah." Ginny replied, tossing the shoes into a corner. "Burning those shoes in the morning. But yeah. It was nice to get out. Did you lot behave?"

"C'mon, Mum, we never behave." James replied with a grin, then sat down beside her. She jabbed him in the ribs, and smirked.

"At least the house is still standing."

"I went into the attic." He told her, watching her face. "Lily and Al followed me. Can't get rid of them. Anyway, um, we found some pictures. In a box."

"Yeah?" Ginny smiled a little. "I haven't looked through them in years."

"There's some really good ones. One of you and Uncle Ron when you were really little. It's a really great picture. And...and there's this one." He drew it from behind his back, the photo of the Weasleys as children, dressed in their Christmas jumpers. "It's my favourite." He murmured, as Ginny took the picture slowly, looked at it with a slight smile.

"I remember this being taken. Bill and Charlie kept complaining that it was stupid, and Percy didn't want to sit near - near the twins. Um, me and Ron were sat like that, straight away, ready for the picture, and everyone else took ages. It felt like forever. But Mum was really pleased with it. I always liked it."

"It was in the box." James told her. "With all the others. I, um, I sort of thought it didn't belong there. Maybe it should be downstairs, with the other family pictures." When Ginny looked up at him, he shrugged. "It's a good picture."

"Yeah, it is." Ginny murmured. She smiled a little, ruffled his hair. "Go on, kiddo, bed. It's late."

"K. Night."

She kissed him on the forehead, grinned when he swiped at it as he stood. "Night." When he left, she looked down at the picture, smiled a little at her four year old self, at her brothers as young children. She touched a fingertip to Fred's face, and sighed a little. Then decided her eldest was right. It belonged downstairs, with the other family pictures.

And when James got up the next morning, that's exactly where it was.


	112. Memorial

**Little repetetive admittedly, but hey, that's me. As always, thanks for reviews. And, appologies for the even-worse-than-usual title, but this was probably the hardest of, all the Jigsaw Pieces, to think of a title for. **

**112. Memorial**

She kept her daughter's hand tight in hers, as much to keep herself steady as to keep Lily with her. Harry was already inside somewhere, helping set up, and most likely silently rehearsing his speech. She knew he hated giving the speech at the memorial, year after year, and knew that he'd never stop.

"You OK?" Ron muttered beside her. Because she knew he still, after all these years, was aware that she struggled returning here. Just as she knew he'd always remember the first memorial, when, on the way to the castle, she'd broken away from the group, vomited, trembled, full of wild panic and terrifying memories. She'd hadn't yet been eighteen then, she remembered. And she'd gotten herself into the castle on sheer determination. And Ron's help.

She managed a smile, nodded. "It's, um, not as hard as it used to be." She murmured. The first few years, she remembered, she'd only gotten through by reciting the times tables in her head. Concentrating on that, rather than the surroundings. Making them the only thing she heard in her head, drowning out the sounds of the battle. Thinking of them, only them, because otherwise she'd feel the pain in her knee, as though her body was reminding her that she'd sprained it that night. Without the times tables, she'd feel the way her heartbeat had pounded, the way everything had ached, cuts and burns had stung, and she'd been so, so scared.

Now, enough time had passed that she felt none of that. That she could ignore the memories that tried to torment her. Mostly.

She settled her free hand on Albus' shoulder as they walked through the doors, into the entrance hall. It was the same as it always had been. Despite the knock it had taken during the battle, despite being rebuilt, repaired, it was exactly the same. Looked the same, smelt the same, felt the same.

She remembered walking down those marble steps with Bill, knowing that someone she loved would be dead in the Great Hall. Feeling it, with a painful certainty. She remembered running down them, earlier, sending out a curse, then running outside, doing what she could out there. Running back inside a little later, because it was important to keep moving.

For a moment, her vision wavered, and she could see, hear, smell, the sights and sounds and scents of the battle.

Then she shook it off, tightened her grip on both her children, and moved forward.

"You OK?" Teddy asked her, touching her shoulder as he walked with her. She nodded, then looked at him.

"How about you?" She murmured. He shrugged, managed a smile.

"Same as ever." They found seats, and she was grateful when Teddy left a chair between the two of them. For James, she knew, and knew he understood that she needed her children around her, needed her boy beside her. Though Teddy was the next thing to a son to her, she needed James, the comfort and energy of him, beside her. She shot a smile to Harry, who was hovering by the stage, talking to a couple of teachers.

She turned when the students started to enter, scanning the crowd for her son. She spotted Fred and Lou, smiled at them distractedly as they joined their parents. The same with Molly, with Monique. And then she released the breath she didn't know she was holding when she saw James. Almost finished with her first year of Hogwarts, and almost a inch taller than he had been at Easter. But still the same as ever. Still her son.

He shot her a grin as he moved towards them, almost running. Never walked, she thought fondly. Her boy never walked. He ran, or he moved somewhere between a walk and a run.

"Hi!" He said brightly, dropping into the seat beside her. And her world righted. She couldn't explain how _wrong_ everything had felt while he'd been gone. How only the Christmas and Easter holidays had felt normal, felt right. She wasn't sure if she'd ever feel right without him at home. Wasn't sure how she'd cope when her other son, then her daughter, followed him away.

So she slipped her arm around James' shoulders, kept her other hand on Albus' knee, at her other side. Lily was sat on her lap, as she always had been. Soon enough she'd be too old for that, Ginny knew, but for now, she needed the three of them close.

"You had a good term?" She asked him, and he shrugged.

"Was OK. Haven't had detention for a whole week." He added with a winning smile. And she couldn't help but grin back. On her other side, Albus tugged her hand, asked if they were going to start soon, while Lily threw her arms around James' neck in some kind of hug, nearly overbalancing and toppling off her mother's knee. And Ginny relaxed as much as she was able to.

They were silent during the speeches, a little fidgety during while the memorial candles were lit. And then, when it was finally over, they all stood, the kids stretched, chattered, bickered. Most made their way out of the hall; others, including the Weasleys, waited around. Harry finally joined them, slipped an arm around Ginny's waist, ruffled his son's hair and asked a few questions as they slowly made their way outside.

The rest of the afternoon was theirs, with the castle and it's grounds open to everyone. While some people left, most with children at the school stayed. Molly and Arthur said their goodbyes, hugged and kissed their grandchildren, then left. The rest scattered.

Harry and Ginny ended up sat by the lake, watching their children race about, splash in the water, laugh, argue, and be obviously happy. She admired them for that, Ginny supposed. That they could sit through the sad and sombre inside, and then come out here and be happy. Be children.

"It's good that they do this." She murmured.

"What, the memorial?"

"No. Well, yes, I guess. But it's good that they give us the rest of the day. We should be together for this, shouldn't we? Families. That's what it's about, really."

"I guess." Harry murmured. "Are you OK? I know it's hard for you to go inside."

"It's hard for a lot of people. I'm OK." And, she thought, watching her kids, she was glad that none of them would ever have difficulty going inside. That when they were grown, and looked back on their schooldays, they'd have memories like this, rather than ones of war and loss.

It would always be hard. This day, this place, they'd always be difficult for her. But for the rest of the day, she'd simply enjoy her children.


	113. No Regrets

**I started this with no idea where it was going, and I'm not quite sure where it ended up. Love to hear your opinions, as always, so thanks for the reviews last time.**

**113. No Regrets**

He hesitated, again, outside the door. He'd nearly talked himself out of this six times on the way, but Ron knew that, no matter how many arguments he had managed to conjure up, he had to do this. Had to.

He pushed the door open, and braced himself. For what, he wasn't quite sure, but it was a good thing he had. When he saw Lavender, he felt the shock radiate to his very bones, and if he hadn't been braced, he wouldn't have managed to recover so quickly, and hide the worst of the shock when she opened her eyes and looked at him. She showed surprise of her own at the sight of him; and then nothing.

"What do you want?" She asked. Her voice was quiet, and raspy, as though she hadn't used it for a while. And Ron looked at her, with nothing to say.

Her pretty face had been ripped open. Her arms had been cut to shreds. He'd known that, been told that. But seeing the evidence...

Someone had done their best to heal the wounds. He imagined Madam Promfrey had done what she could, and the healers had done more. The cuts had been closed, but deep red lines ran down her face, reminding him of his eldest brother. Her arms were bandaged, but he assumed they would have similar marks.

And her eyes were devastated.

"Lavender." He murmured, finally, and moved towards her, sitting on the edge of her bed without thinking. This was the girl he'd known since he was eleven, after all, and the girl who'd been his first girlfriend, his first kiss. As much as she'd annoyed him, she'd meant _something_ to him, however briefly. "I...I'm sorry." Sorry that she'd been hurt, sorry that she'd be scarred, sorry that he hadn't come before.

To his horror, tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her ruined face. And she sobbed, so hard he thought she might just shatter. "God. Don't. Please." He managed, and she fought for control. Because, once upon a time, he'd meant something to her, too.

"It was Greyback." She told him, her voice shaking. "The werewolf. I'm not going to be - to be like him, but he, he..." She gestered tearfully at her face.

"I know." He managed, trying to avoid staring at the marks. Pretty Lavender, ripped to pieces. "We – we saw it. Hermione, she was the one who got him off you."

Lavender fell silent, then, even the quieter sobs stopping. "Hermione Granger?" She murmured, trying to conceive that the girl she'd once considered an enemy had saved her. And then she burst into fresh tears. "She should've let him kill me. She should've just let me die!"

Ron gaped at her, and, though he wasn't aware of it, leaned away from her a little. "Don't be stupid." He said, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"Look at me." Lavender wailed. "Look at me! Look at my face, Ron. He's destroyed it. I'm disgusting." Her voice broke on the last word.

"No, you're not." He said, and wished for Hermione. She'd know what to say, how to say it.

"I am. I am. I was beautiful. Wasn't I?"

"I – I thought so."

"And now I'm not. I'll never be. How can I live like this? I should be dead. Look at me." She said again, though the words were lost in tears. Ron stared at her for a long moment, taking a good look at the marks, while anger stirred.

"You'll always be scarred. My brother was attacked by Greyback, and he'll always have the scars."

Lavender burst into fresh sobs.

"You'll never look the same. Maybe you'll never be beautiful." She cried harder, but when Ron spoke again, his voice was hard enough to shock her into silence again. "Do you think that _matters_? For God's sake Lavender, are you really that shallow? So you'll be scarred, so you'll look different. That doesn't matter. You're alive. You're alive and wishing you weren't because of a few little scars? Not everyone was so fucking lucky."

She stared at him in shock. All her self pity, all her tears, all her devastation, had been genuine, but she had been expecting sympathy. Sympathy and kind words, because that's what she believed she needed. And instead, she'd been yelled at, sworn at, and was now being glared at.

An angry reply was on the tip of her tongue, when she remembered abruptly that he'd lost a brother. Parvati had told her that one of the Weasley twins had been killed. And she realised that that must be the root of Ron's anger at her. A little ashamed, she lowered her gaze.

"I'm sorry about your brother."

Used to the words now, Ron only shrugged. "Lavender, I know it's horrible that you're hurt, that you're scarred, that you're, maybe you're not as pretty as you used to be. But you're still alive, and you shouldn't wish you weren't."

She said nothing to that, because she couldn't help the way she felt.

"I, ah, I am sorry, though. And, um, I shouldn't have shouted at you." When Lavender only nodded, Ron mused that Hermione would have handled things a lot better. "I, I hear the last year was pretty rough at Hogwarts."

"Yeah. Probably not so fun for you guys either."

"No." They both fell into silence, neither wanting to discuss it further.

"How – how are Harry and Hermione? And you, actually." She was a little desperate to move the conversation away from herself, now.

"Oh." Surprised, he nodded. "We're OK. Mostly. We'll get better. You know how it is."

"Yeah. I know." Lavender murmured. She raised a hand, traced one of the marks on her face, and fought back the tears that stung at her eyes. She couldn't get past it. Couldn't forget that she looked so different, so bad.

"Lavender. Don't." Ron murmured, tugging her wrist down. To his discomfort, Lavender took hold of his hand. He shifted a little, but didn't pull away, deciding it would upset her.

She'd always wanted to hold hands when they'd been together. When they were walking, when they were just sat around talking. Even at the table once or twice, so he'd been forced to eat with one hand. And when he'd pulled away, she'd sulked. God, he'd hated that. They had been so badly suited, he thought.

Lavender seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because she smiled at him a little.

"It wasn't all bad, was it, when we were together?"

He flushed, a little guilty. "No. We had some good times. Some fun."

"Yeah. We just weren't right for each other."

"No, I guess not." He smiled at her a little, relieved she seemed amused.

"You're with Hermione now, then?" When he looked surprised, she grinned a little. "I don't think even you could have spent most of the year hidden away with her and not _done_ something. It drove me crazy, you know, knowing you'd rather be with her."

"I'm sorry." No point denying it now, he thought.

"No regrets." She murmured. There was a knock at the door; a second later, Seamus's head appeared around it.

"Hi. Hi, Ron."

"Hi." It took him a while to understand. Long enough for Seamus to enter the room, sit on the other side of Lavender, in the chair Ron hadn't noticed, and take her hand, gently. Then it clicked, and Ron stood. "I better be going, then."

"Thanks for coming." Lavender murmured, offering him a smile that didn't quite meet her haunted eyes. It was harder to accept how she looked when she was with Seamus, whose opinion mattered most.

"Yeah. I'll see you around, I guess." They'd been badly suited, they'd irritated each other, and in the end, neither had wanted the other quite as much as they'd wanted someone else. And still...

He reached the door, stopped with his hand hovering over the handle, then looked over his shoulder. "Lavender? No regrets."

This time, her smile was brighter, and some of her former beauty showed beneath the wounds.


	114. Safety

**Thanks for reviews. Not sure where this came from, except I'm interested in how both these characters coped with this period in DH. **

**114. Safety**

She was so angry. And scared, oh so scared all the time. But mostly, right now, Ginny Weasley was angry.

There were many reasons for the anger. She'd just got out of detention, where the prominent feature torture. Her whole body ached from the cruciatus curse, and her throat hurt from screaming. So the anger there was two-fold; she'd been tortured and unable to stop it, and she hadn't held back the screams. Luna was still missing. She'd just seen two second year girls heading up to the hospital wing, holding up a second year boy who appeared to be bleeding. Someone had been locked in a classroom sobbing.

Everything was so messed up, and she was sick of it. What she wanted was a good, big fight, where she could release all the pent up anger and frustration, and hopefully do some good. Instead, she stormed along the corridor.

And then she saw Draco Malfoy. He was leaning against a wall, his hands over his face. Her temper spiked at the sight of him, looking distressed.

"What the hell do you have to be upset over?" She heard herself cry, and stormed towards him before she'd fully thought it through. He dropped his hands and looked shocked, and then embarrassed.

"Beat it, Weasley."

"No. Tell me, what's so bad in the life of You-Know-Who's favourite student?" She was yelling. She knew that by the pain in her throat, but her voice didn't seem that loud to her own ears. Draco winced, though, either at the question or the volume.

"Yeah, yeah that's right." He snapped, glaring at her. "His favourite, his absolute favourite, and everyone knows how _nice_ he is. Go away, Weasley, and stop pretending you know what my life is like."

"Oh, it's so horrible, right? So awful to have your parents safe, to know that you're on the winning side, to be untouchable here while the rest of us can't walk down the corridor without risking -"

"_Safe_? You think I'm _safe_? How stupid are you, Weasley? I'm no safer than you."

"Are you out of your mind? You're right there in his inner circle -"

"And he'll kill that inner circle without a second thought if the mood strikes him. Maybe, just maybe I'm a tiny bit safer than a blood traitor, yeah, but no one's safe, Weasley. And I'm not his goddamn favourite."

He turned to walk away from her, and when she grabbed his elbow he turned to glare at her. "Take your filthy blood traitor hands off me."

"No. You don't sound very happy with your _master_, Malfoy, which confuses me. He wants what you want. A world where people like me aren't around. Now, is it that you don't approve of his methods, or is he just not nice enough to you?"

"Let go, Weasley. What's wrong with you?"

"Oh, I don't know, could it be that everyone I love is at risk, the country's in the grip of the most evil wizard ever, that those of us who know right from wrong are suffering, dying, and things seem to be getting worse every day? You know, I think maybe that could be it." She released his elbow, and wasn't sure whether she wanted to hit him, scream, or just burst into tears.

"I didn't want this." He said, his voice suddenly so much quieter. "I never wanted this."

"What did you think was going to happen if he got power? Did you think it was all going to be rainbows and sunshine?"

"No. I...I don't know what I thought. But I never wanted this." He looked at her seriously, and she saw, for the first time, the hints of strain around his eyes, his mouth. "It's no better for us. He – He does what he wants, kills who he wants. You could be next, or I could. So go yell at someone else, Weasley, or go do another one of your pathetic rescue missions -"

"Pathetic? Those are eleven year olds, twelve year olds, being tortured, suffering in a war they probably don't understand. Being hurt and scared, all so one of your Death Eater buddies can get their kicks. They're kids. They're just kids."

"Yeah, and you're so old, so grown up. You're, what, Weasley, sixteen?"

"So?"

"So why aren't you hiding away in your dorm and letting your order sort this out?"

"Because I'm not a coward, Malfoy. Because I'm willing to do whatever I can. Because it's _wrong_ to hide away and do nothing."

"You think this is about saving people? What is it with you Gryffindors? This is about surviving, Weasley, doing whatever you can to stay alive."

"No. It's about winning. What's the point of living if things are going to be like this?" She stepped back, ready to leave, and her vision went grey. The world seemed to spin around her, and she threw out an arm to steady herself, clenched her teeth and fought to keep conscious. When her vision cleared, and her mind steadied, she wasn't sure which of them was more shocked to see Draco gripping her arm. He released her slowly, and neither of them mentioned that she'd be on the floor if he hadn't caught her.

"What's up with you?" He said finally, looking at her oddly. She shrugged, nearly flushed.

"I just finished a detention with one of your buddies. The cruciatus curse tends to make me dizzy afterwards." She said flatly. She didn't bother adding that, unless she lay down soon, she was likely to pass out in the hallway. It wasn't something to share with a Death Eater.

"Go lay down, Weasley." He said, and looked, she realised, a little sick. "Go lay down, and forget about everyone else."

"Is that how you sleep at night?" She murmured. "Is that how you live with yourself?"

"I don't care what you think of me." He replied.

"Good." She said flatly. "Because you disgust me."

She turned, and started to walk away from him.

"Get some sleep, Weasley. You're no good to those kids in this state."

She ignored him. But all her anger had gone, and when she reached her dorm, she fell face down on the bed and straight into sleep.


	115. Love and Hate

**You can probably expect a couple more Lily/Scorpius bits soon, since I've got a few half-written. I'll get back to Draco and Astoria at some point, promise. This is sort of a missing moment from my story Fire and Ice, but it's not at all necessary to have read that. **

**Thanks a million for reviews.**

**115. Love and Hate**

She walked in. She would never, normally, have walked into the house without knocking, and waiting for someone to answer the door. There were several places where just entering were acceptable for Lily; Lucius Malfoy's home was not one of them.

But she was pretty sure that she wouldn't have been let in. Most likely, the door would have been slammed in her face. Less likely, but possible, he'd have jinxed her till she was off his land. And Lily was determined to say what she needed to.

By the time she found him, she'd stormed in and out of three rooms, had a moment of panic that she was lost in the annoyingly large house and would be trapped there forever, and had started to feel a little nervous about what would happen when she finally tracked Lucius down.

He was sitting at an antique desk, writing with a large black quill. When she pushed the door open, he tensed, then turned to face her looking irritated. And she watched, with some amusement, his mouth drop open. All irritation vanished, replaced with pure shock.

"Hey there, Mr Malfoy." Lily said, forcing her voice to be bright and easy, and reminding herself that James was waiting for her right outside. She could outrun Lucius easily, she assured herself, and even if she couldn't, she had maybe half hour before James would come after her. She was safe, sort of, and she refused to be scared by him anyway.

"Who let you in? What are you doing here?"

"I let myself in. I'll apologise for that, and mean it, because it was rude and...innapropriate. And believe me, I don't feel comfortable about it. But I didn't think I'd get inside otherwise. And I'm here to talk to you."

"I have nothing to say to you." He told her, standing.

"That's good, it'll make it easier for you to listen." She sat down, partly because she knew he'd never ask her to and her legs didn't feel quite steady, and partly to show him that she wasn't leaving until she was done. She let herself take a moment to be impressed by the room, the space, the furniture, the art. Then she pushed that aside, and focussed on him. "You didn't come to our engagement party."

"I'm aware of that. Now leave."

"No." It took every ounce of her Gryffindor bravery, and every bit of her acting skills to keep her voice firm and steady. "He's your grandson. Whatever I am, whatever you think of me, he's your grandson, and you skipped his engagement party."

"I doubt he cares overmuch." Lucius replied coldly. "He cares less and less about what I do, what I think, since you came along."

"No, he doesn't. He cares just as much as he always has, and it's never been a lot. He hates what you've done. He hates parts of you. But you're his family, and he loves you, in his way. And since he's your grandson, I'll assume you love him, too, in _your_ way." She kept her eyes on his, aware that her tone was sliding towards judgemental. "He doesn't need your approval. Not for this, not for anything, because he loves me, and I love him. With everything I have, everything I am, I love your grandson. I need you to understand that."

She waited for a comment, but Lucius said nothing. "He wants your acceptance, Mr Malfoy. He doesn't want or expect you to approve, anymore than he needs you to. I want that, for him, because I hate to come between him and any member of his family, even you. But I won't ask for your approval. I won't expect it, either. But you'll accept. If you love him at all, you'll accept us, and you'll attend our wedding. You hurt him, by missing the party, by refusing to accept us, you hurt him, and honestly, I'll never forgive you for that. I saw his face when he realised you weren't there, and there was hurt. He hides it well, but I saw it, so I guess maybe I hate you as much as you hate me."

Again, she paused for comment, but Lucius didn't speak. His expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts, so she swallowed and continued. "If you feel anything towards him, at all, you'll come to the wedding. He deserves that from you, so you'll be there. Because _I_ love him, more than you'd ever be capable of, and if you don't come, you'll hurt him again. And I swear, if you hurt him like that again, I'll make your life miserable. Yeah, I get you think I'm doing that by marrying your only grandson, but you have no idea."

"You're threatening me." Lucius stated, his voice low and angry.

"No. I'm asking you to come to our wedding, for your grandson. And I'm telling you that if you don't, you'll regret it. I know what you are. I know what you've done. You don't deserve him. You have no idea how much he's suffered because of you, but I do. I hate you for that, always will, and I won't appologise for it. I'll never forgive you for the way he's suffered over the years because of who you are, and the things you've done. And I won't stand for you hurting him this way." She stood, a little surprised to find herself completely steady. "Be there, Mr Malfoy. You have all the details, or your wife does. I don't care whether or not you want me marrying him, if you think I'm good enough, if you'll ever actually accept us. But you'll attend the wedding, and you'll give every appearance of acceptance, for him."

"You'll never be good enough for him." Lucius snapped.

"Maybe not. But I make him happy. You'll have to settle for that, because the wedding is going ahead whether you're there or not. And one day, you'll have great-grandchildren who are part Potter. It's up to you whether you accept them, and it'll be your loss if you don't. You might think you're protecting him by acting like this, or that you'll push him away from me. But you're losing him. Every day, you're losing him a little more. And it's not because I'm taking him away. It's your fault. It's completely your fault."

As far as exit lines went, she was pretty pleased with that one. It was only made better by the fact that she found her way outside without getting totally lost. She slipped into James' car, and managed a smile.

"How'd it go?"

"I'm not sure how much sense I made. I forgot everything I planned to say about the time I thought I'd got lost in the house. But I think I gave him enough to think about."

"You think he'll be at the wedding?" James asked, as they drove away. Lily glanced back at the house.

"Yeah. I think he will."


	116. Never Again

**Well, I promised I'd finish it off. Lame title, I know, but I was completely blank on it. Thanks again for reviews.**

**116. Never Again**

The shock hit him like a blow, right between the eyes, from nowhere. Draco slumped back heavily against the wall behind him, and stared across the crowd at them.

She was the same. He wasn't quite sure why he'd expected her to be different after only a week apart. But he had, and seeing her look so exactly the same seemed to scream at him that he'd lost everything. Lost her.

Didn't lose her, he reminded himself. Pushed her away. Shoved her out the door, because he loved her, and sooner or later he was bound to hurt her. She was so...so innocent, and naive. And he, a former death eater, a man with scars and issues and nightmares, had no right being anywhere near a girl like her.

He knew that. He knew he didn't deserve her. That she was entitled to someone so much better than him.

She laughed. The man with her – Draco didn't know who he was, but hated him, now, with passion – smiled at the sound of the laugh, and rested a hand on the small of her back. She said something – he couldn't hear her voice from here, but Draco remembered it, missed it – and the man nodded, spoke back. They both shifted, and Draco saw her smile.

She'd smiled that like that first time he'd kissed her. Smiled like that the first time he'd told her everything, everything he'd done, seen, heard, that shamed him. Smiled and told him he'd just been a kid. She'd smiled that smile countless times over the months – nearly a year – they'd been together.

She'd never smile at him like that again, Draco thought miserably. Then, when the man with Astoria leaned forward, close, far, far too close to her, he pushed off the wall, thinking, _Like hell_. He crossed the room swiftly; Narcissa was the only one who noticed, and managed to continue her conversation without taking her eyes off her son.

Draco grabbed Astoria's arm, pulled her round. The amusement that had been in her eyes vanished, replaced with shock, the something that might've been pain when she recognised him.

"Draco." Delicately, she removed his hand from her arm.

"I need to talk to you." He said, his teeth clenched. He spared the surprised man beside him a single glance, and ordered, "Back off."

"Draco, for God's sake -"

"I need to talk to you." He looked back at her, into her eyes. He'd missed those eyes, too. Wide and blue and always full of light. "Just for a minute. Please."

"I'll be right back." She said smoothly to the man, then let Draco take her elbow and lead her out of the room, into a spacious, cold, hallway. "We'll talk in here." He told him, without looking at him, and led him down the hallway a little, and into a square room. She threw herself down on a pink sofa – pink, Draco thought with mild disgust – and looked up at him. "What?"

All the smooth manners of moments earlier had vanished, the ingrained behaviour abandoned. And there was only Astoria.

"Who is he?" Draco heard the words come out of him mouth, without deciding to say them.

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

"He was all over you."

"No he wasn't. And again, none of your business. You made your feelings perfectly clear last week, Draco. You may recall the conversation."

"Of course I -"

"Then you'll remember how you told me we had to break up, how you said some nonsense about being destructive, and _discarded_ me, like some toy you'd gotten bored of."

"It wasn't like that." He dropped into the sofa – pink, again – across from hers. "It wasn't anything like that, Astoria. You know why – damn it, I'm not talking about this again."

"Right. Fine. Why the hell did you drag me out then?"

"He was all over you." Draco repeated. And watched temper cloud her eyes.

"No." She said, and stood. "No, you don't get to do this." He stood, too. "You don't get to bitch at me for talking to another guy. You don't get to be upset or angry or jealous -"

"I'm not _jealous -_"

"You don't get to shove me away, ignore me, then act like this. It's not _fair_. You haven't been in touch. You just kicked me out of your life and walked away. You can't do this. I won't let you. You broke my heart, Draco, so don't act like the injured party here."

She stormed away from him, slamming the door before he could murmur, "I'm sorry."

-------------------------

A week later, Astoria was still angry. And hurt. Daphne had given up trying to convince her Draco meant nothing, and given up trying to comfort her.

And she was still so, so sick of herself. Sick of the fact that she loved him, even after everything. Sick of the fact that she was still sort of expecting him to admit he'd made a mistake, and beg her to take him back. Sick of knowing that she would, if he asked.

She wondered down the stairs, and probably wouldn't have heard the footsteps if she hadn't been so determinedly not thinking of anything. Keeping her mind blank, because otherwise she'd think of him. But she heard the footsteps, turned to the door and waited for the doorbell to go. When it didn't, and she heard no footsteps going away from the door, she reached for the handle, a little unnerved, and pulled the door open.

And there he was. He was clutching a cardboard box, and looking mortified. And tired, she realised. So, so tired, that his eyes were blurry and the skin underneath them was purple. He stared at her, then held out the box. She took it, looking into it and realising her belongs were inside. Things she'd left at his place, before.

"I just wanted to...I'll go." He started to turn, and she bit her lip. Then told herself to take one last chance, and give him one, because no matter how much he'd hurt her, he was hurting too, and she'd always regret that wasted chance.

"You don't want to leave, do you?" She said. Before she could even start to worry that he'd tell her _yes, actually_, and walk away, he turned back to her, looked at her, and shook his head. His voice bleak, he looked at her pitifully.

"I can't – I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stay away. Is that what you wanted to hear? I can't do this anymore, it's tearing me apart."

She smiled, that same smile, and he realised he was giving in. He was going back on everything he'd said, everything he'd promised himself, because he couldn't stay away from her.

"I meant everything I said." He told her, and stepped closer. She nodded, smiling wider. "But I – I promise, I'll do my best to...I can't, Astoria. I need you. I don't have any right, and you deserve so much better, but I'm weak and selfish and I need you."

And there it was. In this place, Daphne would rant and rave and say that he deserved all of that and more. Astoria could do that. She could do it, and maybe she'd mean it. Or she could forgive him, like she wanted to.

A heartbeat passed, in silence, then she spoke. "Draco, what took you so long?" She said easily, and saw the relief settle on him.

"I'm sorry." He stepped forward, pulled her to him, tightly. "I'm so sorry. You said I broke your heart."

"You did."

"I'm sorry. I broke mine, too, if that helps. I'm so, so, sorry."

"Never be so stupid again." She said, drawing back to look at him.

"I'll try. I love you."

"I know. I love you too." Finally, he kissed her, and kissed her and kissed her, and didn't think he'd ever stop again. Didn't think he wanted to. Even when Daphne appeared behind them, rolled her eyes and ordered them to break it up because they were blocking the door, the ignored her.

"C'mon, Draco." Daphne said, jabbing his shoulder. It was the first time she'd used his first name, and later they'd all realise it was because she'd finally accepted him, accepted them. Because she'd seen them both while they were apart, seen how miserable they both were, and understood they were supposed to be together.

"Come _on_." She said, louder. "Let her go now."

"Never." Draco said, finally breaking away and looking over his shoulder at her. "Never again."


	117. Fall

**Another missing moment from _Fire and Ice_, but again, no need to have read that. It's pretty easy to follow, I think. Takes place after Lily fell off her broomstick. The three kisses thing, I'm not sure how well that fits in, but that's how the chapter came out. Ignore the title. It's like fall in love/off brooms kinda thing, but it sucks.**

**117. Fall (Three Kisses)**

(The first kiss was an accident, an explosion of anger, frustration, and a mutual attraction that had simmered for over a year.)

The banging on the door woke Scorpius up, and though he blinked at the ceiling, then rolled over intending to ignore it, the banging got louder, causing him to swear and kick the covers off. He was halfway to the door, annoyed, when the banging sounded _again_, and he turned back to grab his wand. Just in case.

"What?" He snapped, when he reached the door, one hand on the handle, the other clutching his wand.

"Open the door." A familiar voice replied. Scorpius obeyed, and glared at James Potter.

"Do you know what time it is?" He demanded, then realised he didn't actually know the time himself. "Why are you banging on my door like a maniac?"

"You went to see Lily. At school."

"The nerve of me." Scorpius muttered. He stepped back, motioned for James to come inside, then closed the door behind him. "Your reaction to me visiting Lily is to try kick my door down?"

"I knocked first. Twice."

"I was asleep. I worked late last night, and today's my day off." Scorpius stopped himself there, reminding himself he didn't have to justify himself.

"Then I had to bang to wake you up, didn't I?" James replied easily. "She's, ah, she's really OK, isn't she?" James looked rather like he hadn't wanted to ask, but couldn't help himself.

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's fixed up. She's fine. Bored, more than anything. A little sore, a little embarrassed."

"Right. She shouldn't be embarrassed. We've all done it."

"Yeah." Sensing that James had more to say, Scorpius perched on a chair arm, and waited. James hesitated, then looked at Scorpius' wand, which he still held loosely in his hand.

"Who were you expecting to turn up on your doorstep? Voldemort?"

"No." Slightly embarrassed, Scorpius tossed his wand onto a table. "I, ah, remember you falling off your broom once. Way back. Middle of a match."

"Broke my arm in two places." James nodded, and threw himself into a seat. "Nearly broke my neck." He smiled slightly. "Lily's first year. Terrified her. I woke up to see her standing there, all concerned and worried. And when she was certain I was OK, she started yelling, telling me I'd scared her and nearly broke my goddamn neck showing off."

"You were showing off."

"Only a little." James said with a shrug. Then he looked at Scorpius, sighed a little. "Why'd you go see Lily? You saw her a couple weeks ago in Hogsmeade."

"She was in the hospital wing."

"But you knew she was OK.

"And that's why you're all worked up?"

(The second kiss was in secret, hiding in an empty classroom, giggling like children, shushing each other, and prepared to spring apart and deny.)

"Yes." James replied, and glared. "Are you in love with my sister?"

Scorpius felt himself tense, then blew out a breath. "Yes." Why bother denying it?

"Son of a bitch." James muttered, and jumped up so fast that Scorpius nearly fell of his seat. "You love her. Son of a bitch." He turned away, kicked an armchair.

"If you plan to start kicking me, I'll have to ask you to leave."

"What? Oh. No. Sorry. I didn't expect this. I never expected this." James pushed a hand through his hair. "Does she know?"

"Yeah, actually. I told her, while I was there. And you've taken it a damn sight better than she did."

That brought a grin. "Denial, panic, and anger, right?" James guessed, as amused as he was worried.

"Then she joked. Then we talked." Scorpius nodded. "She didn't say it back. She doesn't think she feels it back."

"Ouch." James said, sympathetically. "But she's sixteen, Scorpius. You can't reasonably expect it."

(The third kiss was an impulse, outside with only an ancient tree to hide them from the castle.)

"I know. I don't. I just...Damn. I don't know what to do. Is it better if I just let her go?" Though a part of him was a little surprised that he was asking – he hadn't asked Al for advice, and Al was his best mate – he knew that James' advice would be in Lily's best interest. Though he and James got on well enough, James was unreservedly on Lily's side, while Albus was trying to divide his loyalties.

"Do you want to?"

"No."

"Then don't." James hesitated before speaking again. "I haven't been waiting for you guys to break up. I know I might've gave that impression, and I'll admit I didn't expect you guys to last this long. And it's not that I've never liked you being together. It's that she's my little sister."

"I know. I get it. Sort of." As much as, he figured, a man without sisters could get it.

"But it...it's better that you love her. If you love her, you'll take more care. You'll try harder not to hurt her."

"I would've done that anyway."

"It's different when you love her. It makes things different."

"You ever been in love?" Scorpius asked.

James had a sudden flash, memories, mistakes. "No." He said. "Not really. Kid's stuff, you know? And, ah, are you sure that's not what you've got here? Are you sure it's _love_, not just kid's stuff?"

"I'm sure. I'm sure, and it scares me."

"I guess it's supposed to." James replied, and grinned a little. "It makes me feel better about it to know you're scared."

"Whatever helps." Scorpius replied, rolling his eyes. "You want a drink or something? Al keeps the fridge stocked. If I was living alone it'd be empty."

"That's Albus for you. Yeah, sure, whatever you've got." James shrugged, and looked at Scorpius as he headed for the little kitchen area. James would kill him, happily, if he hurt Lily in any way. But maybe, just maybe, Albus was right when he said Scorpius was the best guy for their little sister.

Time would tell, James mused. And he'd make an effort to get to know Scorpius better, just to make sure.

And Scorpius, turning back, realised that, understood that. And figured it would probably be worth it, after in the long run.


	118. First and Last

**Thanks, as always, for reviews.**

**118. First and Last**

The first time the little boy cried, endlessly, Petunia stared at him for a long, long time. He was red in the face, his eyes screwed up and leaking tears, his mouth wide open, emitting a high-pitched wail.

Had it been Dudley, she'd have ran to him, scooped him up, held him close, and given him whatever he needed to quieten him. But it wasn't Dudley; it was Harry, and she didn't know what to do for him.

Her sister's child, the nephew she'd never met, nor wanted to. And yet here he was, forcing his way into her home (though she knows the baby didn't make any choices to land himself here, it's far easier to blame him, than to blame the dead sister she never forgave for simply being herself, or the stranger who'd left him, with a letter, on her doorstep) and demanding her attention.

She hated to look at him and see Lily's eyes looking out. Full of innocence, rather than the anger, the pain, the disappointment that had been in Lily's eyes the last time they'd met Petunia's. She hated to see his face and be reminded of the man Lily had married, the one who'd looked at Petunia with disgust, and Lily with love (everyone had always loved Lily).

Most of all, she hated to look at him and know what he was.

A wizard, Petunia thought, and when he let out yet another screaming cry, she sank to the floor, leaning back against the sofa. He'd have magic, just like his mother. The magic Petunia had never been good enough to get. The magic that Lily had flaunted, without even meaning to. The magic that had made Petunia envy, then resent, then hate her sister.

And now here was the reminder. The reminder that Lily had been magical (in so many ways, in her powers, in her compassion, in her smile, in all the ways that had made everyone love her while they'd overlooked Petunia) and that Lily had been special, while Petunia was not. The reminder that Lily had found someone who'd loved her so intensely he'd despised Petunia for hurting her (Vernon, though she was sure he loved her, had never noticed Petunia's pain over her damaged relationship with her sister, and had never bothered to hate Lily for hurting Petunia).

And, maybe most of all, Harry was the reminder that Lily was dead.

Petunia had still loved Lily – how could she not? Lily was her little sister, and they'd once been so close. She'd loved her, even while she'd hated her. And though she'd never really planned to reunite with Lily, Petunia had never wanted her _dead_. No, never that. Away, yes, out of sight and mind, but safe and well.

But Lily was gone, and this boy, this boy with her eyes and her magic, seemed to be screaming that fact at her, even as he screamed for food.

Petunia's hands were shaking when she spoke.

"I don't want him. I don't want him."

------------------

The first time Dudley hit Harry, they were both toddlers. Harry had picked up one of Dudley's toys; Dudley had immediately decided he wanted it, and snatched it from Harry, before hitting him on the shoulder. Petunia absently said he shouldn't hit people, and turned away.

When Harry cried out, she turned back, to see Dudley looking up at her innocently, and Harry clutching his leg. She said nothing then, nor later when a large bruise appeared on Harry's shin.

Over the years, while her son hit her nephew for fun, she turned a blind eye to it.

Why not? Dudley was her son, and Harry was nothing.

------------------

The first time he had a nightmare, Harry came out of his cupboard (oh, God, how horrible to keep him in a cupboard, but Vernon insisted Dudley needed both rooms, and Petunia didn't want the boy to be part of her household, didn't want him to have a room and seem like he belonged; he didn't belong, and he never would) and up the stairs, seeking an adult to reassure and protect him.

She woke when he pushed the door open, as the light from the hallway fell straight on her face, and she blinked a few times before realising he was there. She sat bolt upright, afraid (he was magic, after all, and who knew what he could do?) and he stepped forward, his eyes (Lily's eyes) huge and shiny, his mouth trembling. "I had a bad dream." He told her, his voice low. "I'm scared."

And small, she thought tiredly. And young, so young, and sometimes he seemed so vulnerable.

_"Tuney? I had a bad dream. I'm scared, can I sleep with you?" Lily's voice shook, just a little, and those big green eyes shimmered with tears, as she stood beside Petunia's bed. Though her own bed was just across the room, it wasn't the first time she'd gotten afraid and been scared to sleep alone._

_"Alright then, Lily. It wasn't real, you know, it can't hurt you."_

_"I know. But I feel safer with you."_

For the briefest moment, Petunia was ready to comfort the child, to reassure him, to allow him to feel safe. Then she shook her head. "Go back to bed, Harry."

"I'm scared." He told her again, his voice thin. "There was a monster, and -"

"It wasn't real!" She snapped, and watched him flinch. Beside her, Vernon stirred. "It wasn't real, you stupid boy. Go back to bed."

Vernon rubbed his eyes, lifted his head, and focussed on Harry. "What're you doing, boy?"

"I had a bad dream." Harry said, his voice shaking now, his eyes filled with tears.

Vernon snorted. "Go back to your cupboard, boy."

For a moment, Harry looked from one to the other, then he lowered his head, turned, and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

For a long time, Petunia lay awake in the dark. And for a long time, little Harry huddled in his cupboard, a blanket wrapped around him, scared that the monster in his dream with the red eyes and high-pitched laugh would get him.

* * *

The first time he asked where his parents were, she'd heard herself snap, "They're dead" and was shocked and ashamed at the harshness of her voice.

The first time he'd asked how they'd died, she'd lied, without even thinking about it. "In a car accident. Stop asking questions. Go to your cupboard." When he'd slipped off the chair and headed for his cupboard, Petunia had closed her eyes for a moment.

It became a pattern, for a little while. He'd ask for his parents, ask how they'd died, and she'd give him the same answers. Sometimes, he'd asked what they'd looked like, what they'd been like, and she'd always tell him to stop asking questions.

The first time he asked for pictures of them, she felt her heart twist, just a little. Because it was hardly his fault he'd lost his parents, hardly his fault that he couldn't remember them. And normal, she was sure, to want to see their faces, even if it was just a picture.

If she'd had any, she might've given him them. But there were none; so she sent him away.

* * *

The first time she had to keep him off of school, she went to wake him in his cupboard and he was crying for his mother. A whimper, really, and his face was distressed. When she woke him, he had a fever, and when he threw up she was forced to keep him home. He stayed in his cupboard, miserably ill, and when he fell asleep, she'd heard him, again, calling for his mother.

She knew she ought to let him out of his cupboard, ought to comfort him. Instead, she cleaned the kitchen with vengeance.

"He's not mine." She murmured. "He doesn't even belong here."

* * *

The first time he did magic – well, she was pretty sure it was magic – she was so terrified she almost screamed. Suppressing that, she turned to glare at him, and sent him, angrily, to his cupboard. He was so confused that he just stared at her for a moment, before asking what he'd done.

"You know what you did!" She cried, even though she was aware he couldn't possibly know what he'd done. "Get to your cupboard!"

He left, and she was surprised to find her hands shaking.

* * *

The first time he left for Hogwarts, she thought of Lily. Of how like Lily the boy was, and of how Lily had one walked through this very station aged eleven, excited and a little nervous. Of how Lily would come home with so many stories, and Petunia would hate her for it.

And of how it should be Lily walking into the station with her son. Of how Lily would probably hug him, kiss him, tell him to be good and have fun and write home often. Of how Harry's father would be here, too, and he'd probably hug him tight and give him advice.

The two of them would watch him board the train, wave until the train was out of sight. Lily would maybe cry a little, or maybe she'd be proud.

She, Vernon, and Dudley left Harry alone at King's Cross Station, and went back to the car. She laughed along with them, and when Vernon said something about how the boy would find his way to that excuse for a school, she said nothing.

She remembered exactly how to get onto the platform.

* * *

The last time she saw him, he was grown. Gone was the little boy with the soft features, the questions and nightmares. He was a man now, with his father's face, his mother's eyes, smart comebacks and sometimes, just sometimes, a haunted expression.

And he was going to try to save the world.

Not her world. Though they'd been told that their world was in much danger as Harry's, she was convinced it was a lie. Her world wasn't touched by things in the other world. (Despite those times she'd heard a news story and shivered, wondering...)

Regardless, he was going to take on that _thing_ that Lily used to talk about (always looking scared) and try to save his world. And still, really, just a kid.

She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in a while. He had Lily's bravery, her heart, her determination.

She wanted, suddenly, to tell him that his mother would have been so proud of him. That she'd have loved him so much. And, inexplicably, she wanted to tell him all about Lily; to share with him every memory of his mother that Petunia had.

Then he met her eyes. She almost spoke – _she would have been so proud of this, of you. She'd have loved you so much. You're so like her..._

Then she turned away, and said nothing to him.


	119. Reckless Abandonment

**Parallels with the last one, I guess. Fits for me, though. Not too sure about how well the second bit works, so it'd be great to hear your thoughts on it. Thanks a lot for reviews, as always.**

**119. Reckless Abandonment**

He'd been reckless since a young age. Reckless since the first time the back of his father's hand had struck his cheek, bringing stinging pain and burning humiliation. With hate in his eyes, he'd fled the house, ran down the street, and then hurled a brick through the clean shiny window of the colourful, happy house at the end of the street, where two happy little children lived with their happy, loving parents. Parents who'd kiss a cheek, not slap it, parents who'd listen to their children, without demanding silence and sending them away.

He hurled the brick as hard as he could, and his body twitched at the sound of it striking the glass (nothing like the sound his father's hand had made when it connected with his face, but somehow it was exactly the same) and his eyes followed the fall of the glass, each piece hitting the ground and breaking again. It seemed, to Sirius, to take an age to fall, to stop, to settle, but in reality it was only seconds. For a moment, he looked at the gaping hole where the glass had been, at the tiny sparkling shards on the ground; then he heard someone yell, sensed movement, and he ran, as though his life depended on it. (He'd always been fast.)

He was seven, with the hot red mark still on his face, when he crawled under a shrub, and watched people exit the house he'd vandalised, looking at the mess in shock, and in pain. He hated them, for having everything he didn't.

* * *

He was a first year, and a Gryffindor. He'd been so tempted to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, but had worried about how his parents would react to that.

He watched James, then Remus, then Peter, find their parents, call a goodbye and promise to write. And looked around, unable to see his own parents. He stood at the train station for a long time, looking, waiting, shivering at the cold. It was a bitter winter, and he was afraid. It had been easy, at Hogwarts, with friends and far away from his house, his parents, to pretend there was no problem. To pretend his wasn't afraid of going home and facing his parents.

_A hard word, a careless slap, a black eye._

He watched the other children find their parents, watched the various greetings, watched the crowd thin. Seeing no sign of his mother, or his father, he began to wonder, looking for them.

And then, when only a few people remained, he was forced to accept they weren't there.

He was more afraid than upset, felt more betrayed than surprised, as he found his own way home, shivering in the cold streets of London, refusing to meet anyone's eye, and panicking whenever he didn't recognise his surroundings. He found his way home through luck, rather than knowledge, and hesitated outside the house before pushing the door open.

"Hello? I – I'm home..."

No one replied, and his heart began to beat just a little harder as he moved through the house. And, finally, he found his mother in the kitchen. She turned when he entered, showed a flicker of surprise before her expression turned blank and hard.

"Mother? No one – no one came to meet me."

"You never told me you were arriving home today." His mother replied coolly.

"I did. In my last letter -"

"I haven't read it yet. I'm very busy, Sirius."

He wanted to ask what she was so busy doing, how she hadn't managed to find a spare minute to read a letter from her firstborn son, the son she hadn't seen in months. And he wanted to ask how, even without reading his letter, she couldn't have known today was the day he'd been coming home. Instead, he only nodded. "I, um, I'm not in Slytherin." He'd have liked to never mention it, but it was better to get it out of the way than spend three weeks waiting for them to react, wondering what they'd do.

"Yes. I read that letter. I'm very disappointed."

He'd expected that, and he'd planned a speech, about how it was his life, and he was happy to be a Gryffindor, and he didn't care if she or his father didn't like it. Every careful word left his head, and he found himself nodding again.

She made no move to embrace him, the young boy who'd been away for months. The young boy who craved his parents' love more than life. He waited, for anything, and got nothing.

"Go to your room, Sirius."

He nodded again, and left. In his room, he let a few bitter tears soak into his pillow.

Several hours later, he stole two handfuls of his mother's jewellery, and hid it in his bedroom. At night, he snuck outside and buried the lot of it in his garden.

He got a black eye for his trouble, but never told either of his parents, or his brother, where the jewellery was. (He shared the story with James Potter some weeks later, however.)

-------------------

For his second Christmas at Hogwarts, he stayed at the castle. He'd assumed his parents wouldn't care either way, though he'd written to tell them. They hadn't replied, and he'd told himself not to care.

When he woke up on Christmas morning, there were presents from James, Remus, and Peter at the foot of his bed, one from Andromeda, one from Hagrid. His parents had neglected to get him anything.

He tried to hide that fact from the others, and was thankful that none of them commented on it, even though they'd all noticed. He pretended to be happy all day, pretended to get into the Christmas spirit. In fact, anyone observing would have been certain that he was a content boy, having the best Christmas of his life.

When he went to be, he lay awake, his heart breaking. _No one cared about him._

He was certain everyone else was asleep, so he slipped quietly out of the room, through the castle, outside. He made his way to the lake, looking out at the still, black surface. He had no idea how deep it was, but he was pretty certain it would be freezing. He wasn't a very strong swimmer. He thought of his parents, and how they looked at him. How they hardly ever replied to his letters. How they hadn't bought him a single Christmas present.

And he pulled his pyjama top over his head, pushed the bottoms down and stepped out of them. And dived into the water.

It stole his breath, the cold of it. It was like diving into ice, and for a moment he couldn't breathe, struggled for oxygen. Finally, he managed to drag air into his frozen lungs, and managed to force his numb limbs to move. He swam, further and further from shore, and wondered if he'd die here. Drown in the cold.

And he wondered if he'd care all that much, if it did. He turned to look back at the shore, bobbing in the water, and debated whether or not to swim back. And then he saw the figure standing at the edge of the lake, the familiar messy black hair and the deep red pjs that had been a present from doting parents. Sirius swallowed, then swam back towards the figure. James leaned over to help him out of the water, then, without a word, handed Sirius a brand-new thick, fluffy towel, the same colour as the pjs, also from those doting parents. With equal silence, Sirius took it, and roughly dried himself, before tugging his pajamas on over his soaking wet underwear. He handed the towel, now as wet with lake water as his underwear, and no longer brand new and clean and fluffy, back to James. "Thanks."

"No problem." James replied. Together, they turned and started to walk back to castle. To Sirius' shock, and shame, tears stung his eyes, and he lifted a hand – shaking from the cold, just like the rest of him – to brush them away with icy fingers before they leaked down his face and humiliated him.

He didn't bother to question how James had known that he'd gone, or where he'd gone, but he did wonder why James had followed him, bringing that brand-new towel that would never be the same again.

When he realised the answer, the tears vanished, and that twisting pain in his stomach, the one that had been there all day, faded.

_Someone cared about him._

They never talked of it again.

* * *

He was thirteen, and counting down the days until he returned to Hogwarts. The summer was painfully long, and he was sick of seeing disgust in his mother's eyes whenever she looked at him, disinterest on his father's face when they were in the same room. He'd hung a Gryffindor scarf in his room, with a permanent charm, as a small act of rebellion.

They hated him for being a Gryffindor, and he hated them for not loving him. So he made plans, endless plans, to leave as soon as he was able, to steal money if he had to. He could dig up the jewellery his mother had never found – nor would – and sell it if need be.

He overheard, one afternoon, his parents discussing his cousin Andromeda, who'd ran away to marry a muggle. He was no longer allowed to think of her as a cousin, but he still did; she was, in fact, his favourite.

While his parents talked in disgust, he grinned, proud of her, even more so when he overheard that she'd had a daughter. Caught up in his pride, he forgot to listen for footsteps, and when his mother opened the door he'd been listening through, he jumped and scrambled back. His mother ranted about eavesdropping and what a horrible boy he was, but he grinned.

It earned him a slap, hard and fast, around his head. It was his mother's favourite, that whack around the head that was so hard it jerked his neck. His mother ordered him to his room, told him not to come down for the rest of the day, not even of meals, because horrible little boys like him didn't deserve food.

He wanted to yell that he was thirteen, not a little boy, and that what he didn't deserve was for her to hate him so much. Instead, he turned and ran for the stairs.

He locked the door – he wasn't really supposed to, but he knew from experience that no one would check on him, so no one would ever find out – and then he climbed out of the window.

It wasn't easy to climb down, and since it wasn't even fully dark, he had to go fast, before someone saw. He lost his footing a few feet up, and fell the rest of the way, landing heavily on the ground. It hurt, a little, but Sirius didn't focus on that; instead he held his breath until he was sure no one had heard him fall.

Then he jumped to his feet, and ran. (He was still fast.)

When he knocked on Andromeda's door, she looked terrified and shocked and thrilled, and let him in. And he knew that he could get them both into so much trouble with the family (but they're weren't her family anymore, and he figured that by the time he reached her age, they won't be his, either.)

* * *

His sixteenth birthday passed without comment from his parents. He'd figured out that he didn't get anything when he'd done something to annoy his mother (such as embarrassing her by chosing to stay at Hogwarts for Christma) but this time he hadn't been able to think of anything he'd done to cause it. He'd spent a week confused, a little upset, before an emotionless card and a small present arrived.

James had been furious. For parents to send a birthday present a full week late was a crime to James, who had, of course, had his parents' full and complete love for his entire life. Sirius had told him, in a dull voice, that it was nothing; it didn't matter.

He figured he was a man, now, too old to feel such pain over parents who'd never truly loved him, parents who didn't care about him at all.

He'd still been stinging over that, and over a row he had with his brother, when Snape came across him. And suddenly, he was full of hate, for his parents, for his brother, for this boy in front of him. And, without thinking it through, he told Snape exactly what he needed o do to find out the secret he was so desperate to know.

(He regretted it later, when faced with Dumbledore's disappointment, James' anger, Remus' hurt at being used, Peter's shock and his own fear that the fact that he'd almost got someone killed, without even thinking it through, made him just like the family he hated.)

* * *

The summer he was sixteen, he chatted up a pretty muggle girl who lived in the next street, and was surprised, and intrigued, by how well the two of them got on. She was funny and smart and charming and he thought, later, that he might've fallen in love with her. Maybe.

They started spending days together, away from his house, his family. Hours, talking, kissing, and when he wasn't with her, he was thinking about her.

What happened next was Kreacher's fault. He'd never cared much about the house-elf, barely noticing him. But when he found the elf in his room, trying to tear down one of his motorbike pictures, he flipped. While the elf protested that Sirius was desecrating the house, Sirius yelled that it was his room, his stuff, and if he found the elf in there again, he'd curse him.

His mother walked in on the argument, silenced Kreacher with a single word, then turned her glare on her eldest son. He launched into a rant, with was cut off when his mother bellowed, "_Silence_."

He silenced, and waited.

"This is not your room." She told him quietly, her voice hard, her eyes cold. "This is not your house. This is my house, and your father's house, and we allow you to live here, and to sleep in this room."

She said more; telling him he was a disappointment, that he had no sense of pride in his magic and his blood, that he disgusted her.

Even after everything that had happened to him, the words hurt him. They didn't surprise him, really, but they hurt him enough that he stood in front of her, for a long moment, looking at her, then walked straight past her and outside.

He was angry, he was hurt, and he went straight to his pretty muggle girl. Though he refused to tell her what was wrong with him, she was obviously worried about him, and when he kissed her, as though his life depended on it, she kissed him right back.

And then he did something he'd never forgive himself for. He took her into his own street, stood right outside his house, and kissed her, knowing that someone inside would see, would know. He was determined to show them how little they and their opinions matter to him; his parents hated muggles, so he stood right outside his house, kissing one.

She didn't realise he was using her. He did, after a while, he realised he was using her and flooded with guilt, because she mattered and he'd forgotten that. He'd forgotten everything except that she was a muggle and that he could use her to show his parents he didn't care what they thought. He'd been disgusted with himself, so he'd walked her home, spent time with her, trying to be a nice as possible. When he kissed her goodnight, he'd been gentle, and hoped that he'd made up for his treatment of her.

When he went home, he'd expected his parents to say something; they didn't. He'd been caught between relief and annoyance that his little stunt hadn't worked, and gone to his room.

Later, he'd been almost asleep when he heard the lock on his bedroom door click. It echoed, and he sat bolt upright in his bed, his heart pounding. Why, he didn't know, but he was certain something bad was happening.

And he was scared. So he stayed in his room, waiting for any sound to tell him what was happening; and none came. Eventually, he'd fallen asleep, and when he opened his eyes he found himself slumped sideways against the wall, his neck aching.

No one spoke to him when he ventured downstairs, and, nervous, he left the house. It was only then that he thought of her; and found himself running to her house. It was empty. No people, no furniture, the car was gone. When he asked a neighbour, he was told they'd moved, and no one knew where to.

He went home, terrified, furious, and stormed into the drawing room where his parents were. He demanded to know what they'd done, where she was; and his father told him that it was none of his concern; he shouldn't have gone anywhere near the _filthy creature_ in the first place.

Though Sirius yelled and pleaded, neither would tell him if where she was, or even if she was alive.

Two days later, he left home, and went to James.

(And when none of them asked him to come home, none of them contacted him, he purchased his moterbike, knowing they would have hated it.)


	120. Break

**More of the Fred-death stuff, with a little couple-y stuff mixed in. Thanks for reviews.**

**120. Break**

He was cleaning. Hermione stopped abruptly in the doorway, and her mouth actually dropped open in surprise. He was scrubbing the worktop, attacking it as though it had personally insulted him. She paused for a long moment, just watching, then cleared her throat. He jumped, then looked around at her and flushed sheepishly.

"Hi."

"Hi. What're you doing, Ron?" She stepped into the room, her eyes on his. He gestured, embarrassed, at the counter, and the sponge he'd dropped when he'd heard her.

"I was just...Um, I spilled..."

"And you didn't think to use magic?"

He shrugged, avoided her gaze. "I just wanted to do something. It's...Hermione, it's his funeral tomorrow." He finally dragged his eyes back to hers, and they were full of despair. She crossed to him, slipped her arms around his waist, and wished, yet again, for a way to fix things.

"I know. I'm sorry."

He wrapped his own arms around her, pulled her just a little bit closer. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"There is no supposed to. You just, you do what you need to. If you need to scrub the worktop, do it. If you need to cry, do it."

"I don't need to cry." He said, a little too quickly, sounding slightly mortified.

"Ron." She was a little impatient, from lack of sleep, from the strain of the situation, from trying to hold herself together and be strong for everyone around her, when a part of her just wanted to sink to the floor and sob. "You've lost your brother."

He inhaled sharply, and she felt disgusted with herself. At the same time, she felt he needed to hear it; so she pushed on. "It's hard. It's horrible and hard, and something you should never have had to face. If you need to cry, Ron, don't you dare be ashamed of it. I won't think less of you if you cry, but I'll worry if you don't. It's normal, maybe it's even healthy."

He didn't believe that, nor did he think a guy was supposed to cry all over a girl. But there'd been a small, hard lump in his throat for days, and his eyes were aching a little from the amount of times he'd pressed his hands to them to fight tears.

"It's his funeral tomorrow." Hermione murmured. "And next week we'll have to go to Remus and Tonks'. And we, we're always going to remember that night. I close my eyes, Ron, and I can see it all again."

"I – I keep dreaming about it." He admitted, his voice hoarse. Though he knew she'd spoke of her nightmares to make him talk about his own, he couldn't help letting the technique work. "That night. Sometimes it's the fire, sometimes it's the fighting. Sometimes, I, I see all the dead again – like they were, all in the hall, you know? And it's not just F-Fred and Lupin and Tonks. I'll see Harry, and Ginny, my parents, my other brothers, and, and you." It would be then, looking down at her blank, pale face, her emtpy eyes staring into his, that he'd wake from the nightmare. It would be that image which would stay with him afterwards.

"Ron."

"And sometimes, I'll dream about him dying. Fred. But instead of being dead, he'll get up. The corridor caves in, like it did, but at the end, he's not lying there dead. He gets up and he smiles and says," Ron's voice broke, and he choked out the last few words, "he says _that was a close one, wasn't it? _That's worse. Somehow that's worse." Hermione choked out a sob, part anguish, part horror, part sympathy, and Ron tightened his arms around her.

The tears formed in his eyes again; and this time, he didn't force them back. His hands didn't rise to press against his eyes; instead, he tightened his arms around Hermione.

"I know." She whispered. "I know."

The first tears he'd let himself shed slipped down his face. It took him a moment to realise she was crying too, and, relieved, broken, he lowered his head to her shoulder. Together, they sank to the floor, and stayed there for a long while, crying silently and murmuring to each other.

* * *

His throat felt like someone had clawed at the inside. His mouth had never been so dry. His stomach had some kind of hot, achy sensation going on, and his head was pounding. George blinked his gritty eyes, and filled a glass with water. He gulped it back quickly, and his stomach punished him for it. Giving in, George leaned back against the kitchen counter, and covered his face with one hand.

"You don't look so pretty." At the sound of Angelina's voice, George swore, lifting his head swiftly.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you were." Angelina shrugged, standing by the open back door. "Where's the rest of them?"

He shrugged, pushed at his hair. "I'm fine. You've seen. Are you leaving?"

"There's no need to take it out on me. You want me to make you some breakfast?" She looked a little awkward, he noted, but couldn't manage to care.

"No. No food. No food ever again."

She narrowed her eyes at him, studying his face. "You're hungover."

"Yup. What did you think was up with me?" He knew, though. It had been all over her face when she'd looked at him, in her voice when she'd offered to cook for him. Angry, miserable, he turned away to refill his glass.

"George...this isn't the way to handle things. Drinking...it might make you feel a little better, but in the long-run..."

"Look, Angel, you don't need to worry about me. I'm fine. So I drank a little much last night. I was entitled, don't you think?"

"No. No, I don't. I know it was Fred's funeral, George." And she felt sick at heart because of it. But she'd lost one friend; she wasn't about to let another lose himself. "And I know you were trying to get through it however you could." He'd told her himself, right in the back garden, he remembered. "But this – Fred wouldn't want you to -"

"Don't." He snapped it out, whirling to face her. "Don't tell me what he'd want, as though you know better than me. It doesn't matter what he'd want, OK? He's not here."

"George. It's OK to grieve. It's OK to be upset."

"I'm not upset. I wanted a little drink, so I had one. No problem."

"It's a problem when you end up like this the morning after. You weren't drunk when I left. What did you do, take a bottle to bed with you?"

He shrugged, and she made a frustrated sound. He hadn't planned it like that, exactly. Yes, drinking himself to oblivion. That had been planned. But he'd intended to go back to the flat to do so. To pass out in his own bedroom above the shop. His mother had all but begged him to stay, though, and he hadn't had the heart to refuse. So he'd been in the old room he'd once shared with Fred, drinking until the darkness took him.

"George, this isn't right."

"My brother is dead." He snapped. "_Nothing_ is right."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. George, it's OK to fall apart."

"I don't want to fall apart. Leave me alone, Angel."

"No. Maybe you don't want to fall apart, George, but you sure as hell need to. You've lost your brother. I can't begin to imagine how that feels, but you need to let it out. You go bottling it all up, you'll only suffer more."

"What do you know? Who've you lost?" It was more a snarl than a shout, but his anger, his pain, was evident on his face.

"I lost a friend." She said calmly. "And I've cried, I've screamed, I've fallen apart. You've lost your twin. You're entitled to do that, and more."

"You can't tell me how to grieve."

"No. I can't. Grief is personal, and it's different for everyone. But you're not grieving."

"I can't fall apart." He bit the words off, glaring at her. "I can't do it."

"Why?"

"Because that makes it real!" He cried. "If I break down, it makes it real. It means he's really not coming back. He'd really gone, he's really dead. I can't...I just can't deal with that right now."

Her face softened, filled with the pity that he hated. When she crossed to him, wrapped her arms around him, he didn't react. He didn't want her pity, her sympathy.

"It _is_ real, George. He's – he's really gone, he's really not coming back. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He wanted to deny. He wanted to shove her away, to tell her to just wait, and Fred would come walking through the door, wondering what all the fuss was about. And they'd all laugh at the mistake, celebrate how someone had just gotten mixed up and everything was actually how it was supposed to be.

He couldn't. He couldn't say it, couldn't shove her away. Instead, he hesitantly moved his arms, settling his hands on her back, and let out a shaky breath. "I know." He murmured, and closed his eyes, as though to shut out the world and the horrific reality it brought. "I can't – I can't face it yet. I just can't."

"OK. That's OK."

He didn't fall apart. He clung to her for a little while longer, but didn't cry, didn't break. He simply wasn't ready for it yet.

* * *

He was talking. She heard him, and she nodded and pretended to listen, so convincingly that ten minutes elapsed before he said something that required an actual response, and realised she wasn't listening. Nor was she actually looking at him; there was a spot somewhere three inches above his left shoulder that had her attention.

"Ginny. Ginny. Ginny!"

She snapped back, and nearly apologised before remembering that she hadn't wanted to talk to him anyway. That she had made excuses and tried to get out of the room before he'd started talking. So instead of apologising, she just looked at him, then sighed.

"Harry, I really don't want to talk right now. Just leave me alone, please?" Her voice was tired, and so was the rest of her. She'd clawed her way out of yet another nightmare the night before, choking and gasping for air, her heart pounding. She'd dreamt, of course, of the battle, of death and magic and fear. Waking, remembering that, though it had been real, it was now all over, had brought little comfort. The price of the war ending had, after all, been huge.

"No." He said stubbornly. "You can't keep hiding away, Ginny. You're going to have to start talking to people again some time."

"I'm talking." She hadn't, not really, for a couple of weeks. But she was getting better, bit by bit. She was sure of it.

"Not to me." He said, and looked hurt. "I...I told you last week that I wanted us to get back together, Ginny. And you've been avoiding me ever since."

"I'm not avoiding you." She snapped. "I can't think about you, about – _us_ – right now, and you're just going to have to handle that. For God's sake Harry, my brother is dead!"

She made some kind of noise – some kind of cross between a gasp and a choke – and covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes were wide, horrified, and suddenly she was trembling.

She'd never said it aloud before.

She wanted to snatch the words back, but knew that, even if she'd been able, nothing would change. Fred would still be dead, she'd still be bruised and scarred from the battle, her dreams would still be haunted. She lowered her hands slowly, a little surprised to see them shaking.

"I can't talk to you. You want to talk about us, and I can't. I can't talk about it, think about it yet. It's too much." She was a pitiful figure, standing there in the kitchen, her hands shaking, her eyes full of emotion. She was wearing an ancient, baggy t-shirt that had once been Bill's, which made her look smaller, thinner, than she actually was. It broke his heart, just a little.

"Ginny. Ginny, I'm sorry. I'm sorry he's gone." He moved a little closer, placed his hands on her upper arms. "You don't have to think about us. We don't have to talk about it. But you can't do this; you can't hide away and refuse to talk to everyone."

"I'm not. I talk to Hermione, I talk to Luna." And then, all at once, she was angry again. "You don't get to do this." She stepped back, jerking out of his grip. "You don't get to tell me how to handle this. I'll handle it however I want, just like I handled last year however I wanted, without you."

"Ginny -"

"No." She stepped back again, bumped against the counter. "You weren't there. I had to deal with it, with worrying about everyone, and not knowing where you guys were – if you were even still _alive_ – and facing the Death Eaters who were actually supposed to be _teaching_ us. I had to watch first years cry for their mothers because they were terrified. I watched people get pulled out of lessons to be told someone they loved were dead, and I had to wonder if I'd be next. You have no idea what it was like, and you don't know how hard it was for us to cope."

He said nothing. Could think of nothing to say.

"And I bet it was hard for you guys too, I really do, but it's far too late for you to tell me how to handle things. I learned to cope without you, so don't you dare expect me to lean on you now. I _had_ to learn to cope without you, because you were gone. You left me. You left me, just like he has, and how am I supposed to even think about – about -" She choked, stopped, and squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears. "You just walked away from me."

"I had to. You'd have been in so much danger -"

"I was in danger anyway. You just walked away from me, and then you left, without looking back, without even saying goodbye, you left and you took my brother and one of my best friends with you. You left me alone and you have no right – no _right_ – to stand there now and judge me."

"I'm not. Ginny, I'm not." He hesitated, then went with instinct and wrapped his arms around her. She struggled for barely a moment. "I'm not judging you. I'm not telling you how to cope."

"I'm just waiting for you to leave again." She murmured. She hated herself, a little, for saying it, but couldn't help herself. "You're going to walk away from me again."

"I won't. I promise. I won't."

She didn't believe him. Not all the way. But she wanted to, with her whole heart. And she didn't have the strength to resist anymore, so she let her head drop to his shoulder. And finally, she broke.

Harry didn't quite know what to do with a sobbing girl, so he simply held her and hoped it might help.


	121. Snapshots

**Just some more Lily/Scorpius stuff. It gets sappier as it goes along, and the last bit is taken from another of my stories, Background Music, but it's the best way I could think to end it. Thanks for reviews.**

**121. Snapshots**

He was seven, she was five. She was an impatient, loud little girl, completely comfortable at Teddy's house, surrounded by family and friends. He was a slightly spoiled, rather shy little boy, sending daggers at the grandmother who'd dragged him to a houseful of people he didn't know, then abandoned him to talk to her sister.

He was sat in a chair, doing his very best to go unnoticed, while Teddy's birthday party happened around him. And, so far, it was working. It took him a full minute to realise he was being stared at (and though, in later year, the sensation of being stared at would become painfully familiar, at this point in his life it wasn't) and he looked up to see her, watching him with mild interest, her long red hair falling into her face.

"What?" He said, a little unnerved, and she walked closer to him.

"I don't know you." She said, tilting her head, obviously trying to place his face.

"I know." He replied, and when she continued to look at him, he shrugged. "I'm Scorpius. I'm sort of Teddy's cousin."

"I'm Lily. I'm sort of Teddy's sister." She said, in a tone that showed she obviously thought that relationship superior.

"Good for you." Scorpius replied. He knew who she was, and he knew who her father was. He also knew that, though they weren't related, she was the closest thing Teddy had to a sister.

"You don't want to be here." She guessed, her big blue eyes fixed on his face.

"Not really." He said. "I don't know anyone."

"You know me. Now." She said, and to his surprise, sat down on the floor in front of him and started a conversation.

* * *

He was nine, she was seven, and they were at another one of Teddy's birthday parties. His grandmother, who'd once again dragged him with her, because he liked Teddy and she didn't want to walk into a house full of Weasleys alone (not that she admitted the second part, but in a few more years, he'd figure it out) had disappeared into the kitchen. Most of the adults were in there; the living room seemed to be full of kids and teenagers.

Scorpius watched them, and noticed Lily again; a few inches taller, now, her hair a few inches shorter than it had been, and tied back. He figured she'd probably forgotten him now, and since he barely remembered her, he didn't blame her for it. He watched the younger kids share out the water guns their Uncle George handed them - products from his store, they sent out multicoloured water and sometimes shot it into the face of the person firing them - and he filled with resentment and loneliness. He didn't have friends. (Later, he'd understand why his parents kept him so sheltered, but at nine he didn't know much about Death Eaters and wars.)

Even as some of them ran outside, a dark haired boy, who he recognised as Harry Potter's oldest son (again, he knew little of the war but understood Harry Potter was famous, even if his father got an oddly tight expression whenever he asked about it) looked across at him, then crossed the room to stand in front of him, and tossed a water gun into his lap.

"Are you gonna sit there all day, or do you wanna come outside and play with water guns like the rest of us?"

Shocked, grateful, embarrassed, Scorpius jumped to his feet, and followed the crowd of kids outside. It was the first time he'd ever been included; and that afternoon, spent running around in the uncharacteristically sunny day, getting soaked and firing back, would stay one of his favourite childhood memories for the rest of his life.

* * *

He was eleven (she was nine, but he didn't think about her, and she didn't think about him). He sat in the library at Hogwarts, trying to hide behind a book. He liked to read, and had found, during his first few weeks of Hogwarts, that the son of a former Death Eater had two choices; make friends with other Death Eater offspring, or find some way to spend his time without friends. Scorpius had chosen the latter, and had spent most of his free time with a book in front of him. That way, he didn't have to feel so completely alone, so miserable, didn't have to listen to the comments and bitching his presence attracted.

Ten minutes ago, he'd stormed out of his Herbology class. Professor Longbottom had asked if Scorpius had cheated on his homework, commented on his father, and caused Scorpius – only eleven, and under so much strain – to snap. He'd yelled that he wasn't his father, ran from the greenhouse, and left half his stuff behind. Which was stupid, really. It would probably all get set on fire or something; and he'd have to come up with some lie when he asked his mother for a new bag, two new books, and probably more parchment, quills, and ink, because he refused to confess how badly he was being bullied, how he had no friends and how a lot of people seemed to hate him, simply for his surname. (He'd done nothing to deserve it, and wasn't yet over the injustice of being bullied for things that had happened long before he was born.)

He'd probably get into trouble for shouting, for leaving, he mused. And it wasn't like he could exactly blame Longbottom for mistrusting him. He was the son, and the grandson, of Death Eaters. His father had bullied Longbottom, like Scorpius was bullied now (though not as bad; he hoped not as bad, because he didn't want to think his father was capable of making someone so miserable just for fun). He supposed that when he was an adult, he'd mistrust the children of his tormentors. (Neville would, of course, later apologise profusely, and they'd start over, ignoring Scorpius' surname. Neville would, later, become one of Scorpius' favourite teachers, and they'd both forget the bad start they'd had.)

God, he hated it. He hated having only books for company, hated having other kids stare, whisper, point, hated them making all the snide and bitchy comments, hated them blaming him for things he was never a part of, things that happened long before he was born. He hated being shoved down staircases, hit and jinxed in the hallway. He hated being a Malfoy; hated being who he was.

A dull thud tore his gaze away from the book; he looked up to see his bag on the table in front of him. And looked higher to see Albus Potter stood beside it.

"Thanks." Scorpius muttered, a little embarrassed, a lot grateful. And then, before he could look back down at his book, Albus sat in the seat opposite him.

"I'm not my father, either."

And that was it; an hour later, Scorpius walked out of the library with his very first friend beside him.

* * *

He was almost twelve (she was months away from turning ten). He climbed off the train, Albus in front of him, Rose and Ally behind him. Scorpius had rather expected one of them to ask him to leave their compartment as they neared the station, so that various parents wouldn't be aware the four of them were friends.

Friends. It had taken him a while to get used to that, to accept that not only did he have a best mate, in the form of Albus Potter, but that Allison Longbottom, who shared his frequent bouts of shyness, and Rose Weasley, who despised prejudice and had made an effort to get to know him for _him_, rather than his surname, were also his friends. It was still a little difficult to believe that they'd accepted him, that they actually seemed to like spending time with him. They didn't even mind when he stopped paying attention to their conversation and got caught up in a book, because Rose often did the same thing.

But he didn't think any of their parents would approve (or his own, really, but since they were his only friends, he wasn't all that bothered what his family thought) so was surprised when no one made any comment as they travelled to London. And when they jumped down onto the platform, no one hastily said goodbye and shoved him away before someone saw. He should've, he realised, known them better by now.

A crowd descended on them. He recognised them from Teddy's birthday parties; Albus' and Rose's parents, Allison's mother, and though no one really looked at him, he took a step back, and watched with interest as Albus, Rose and Allison were hugged in turn by several people, as James Potter, Mitch Longbottom, and Fred and Louis Weasley stepped out of another compartment and joined them, and everyone talked at once. When Albus was finally given a little space, Scorpius tapped his shoulder.

"I'm gonna go find my parents, Al, so, ah..."

He was surprised, and pleased, by the enthusiastic goodbyes he got, from his friends, from James and Mitch and Fred and Lou, who he'd spent a little time with, and even Al and Rose's mothers called out a goodbye to him. And then the little redhead he recognised as Lily, Al's little sister, said a loud goodbye, and used his name.

He was smiling brightly as he walked towards his parents.

* * *

He was thirteen, she was eleven. He jumped when someone grabbed his arm, but when she spoke he recognised her voice and relaxed. "Scorpius! Thank God." Lily a brand-new first year Gryffindor, stood before him, looking relieved to see him. "Someone I know. I'm lost. I'm so completely lost. I've never been so lost in my whole entire life."

He grinned, amused by her, as he often was. "You'll get used to the place eventually. Where do you need to be?"

"Charms. I thought I knew where it was, but no. And now I don't know where _I_ am, either."

"Almost as far away as you actually could be. You're nearly at the opposite side of the castle to it."

"Figures. Think you could give me directions? Simple ones that I could actually follow?"

He started to, watched as her eyes fill with confusion and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He had barely two minutes to get to his lesson; there was no way he'd be able to walk her even partway to her class and make it back to his own on time. And he hated walking into a lesson late, hated the way everyone turned to look, to stare, and made comments. It was drawing attention to himself, and over the last couple of years, the bullying that had been so horrific in his first year had lessoned somewhat. He didn't wish to ask for trouble by attracting attention.

But there she was, his best mate's little sister, with huge blue eyes and a worried frown, those slight nerves most first years felt when trying to find their way around the unfamiliar castle. And he remembered being a shy seven year old, in a room full of strangers, with only one person taking the time to speak to him. Even if she had been five at the time.

"C'mon." He said, nudging her elbow to turn her. "I'll take you there."

"You can't. You'll be late."

"I'll get over it." He started walking, and she fell into step beside him. "How're you liking Hogwarts so far?"

* * *

He was fifteen, she was thirteen. When Scorpius threw himself into the chair beside hers, thirteen-year-old Lily Potter looked up with annoyance. When she recognised him, the annoyance faded into a distracted smile, and her gaze travelled back down to the book she'd been reading.

"Talk to me." He hissed.

"About...?"

"Anything."

She looked back up to see him frowning at her; then his eyes slid sideways to the two boys watching them. Massive boys, Lily noted.

"They must be at least seven feet tall. And nearly as wide." She commented.

"Six, six and half." Scorpius shrugged. "And most of that width is muscle. Seventh years. They've been bugging me for half hour."

"Bugging you how?" She finally put the book down, let it close.

"Just following me. Saying stuff." Scorpius said, and flushed. "It's nothing. I just, when I saw you, I figured if I was over here with you, they wouldn't...never mind. I'll let you get back to your book."

"Don't you dare." Lily said, shooting her hand out to grip his wrist. "This isn't right, Scorpius. You shouldn't have to put up with stuff like this."

"It's nothing. I've had worse. Sometimes I fight back, but I didn't think my chances would be so great." Still, it shamed him a little, to feel unable to stand up for himself, for not having the guts to try.

"With those two? They'd snap you in half, Scorpius, with very little effort."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Just give me a minute to work out whether or not to be insulted."

"Don't be. I could maybe get James to talk them into backing off." Then she flushed, just a little, because she was thirteen now, and trying not to rely on her brothers so much. "He's good at stuff like that. Talking people into doing stuff they don't want to. Or just talking till they're so confused they've forgotten what they were doing."

"No. They'll get bored in a minute, and they'll leave me alone, since you're here."

"Why? They can't be scared of me. They could snap _me_ in half with one hand."

"You're oddly graphic today. It's not that they're scared of you. But, ah..." He shook his head. "You're Harry's Potter's kid. They won't dare touch you."

"Oh." She said. "That. I forget."

"You forget that people treat you differently?"

"You get used to it. No matter how much you hate it." When he raised his eyebrows, she shrugged. "I didn't do anything to deserve it. The war was over long before I was born. If I'm going to get treated differently, I'd rather it be 'cause of something I did."

"Tell me about it." He muttered. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, added, "That's not why I hang around with Al and you and everyone. To make people leave me alone. I didn't even notice it till months after me and Al -"

"I know." She said, waving it away. "It's just a handy side benefit. They're leaving."

They both watched the two students leave; when they turned back to face each other, Lily was surprised to see Scorpius looking, not only mortified, but a little shaken.

"I'll, ah, let you get back to your book. Thanks."

"For letting you sit here? No problem." She glanced back at the book, which ten minutes ago she'd been desperate to finish. Then she looked back at his face - and the embarrassment, the upset - and shrugged. "I can finish it later. Why don't you keep me entertained for a little while? I haven't talked to you in ages. Anything new going on?"

She spent the next twenty minutes talking to him, watching until he relaxed. And if she happened to enjoy herself, well, that too was just a handy side benefit.

* * *

He was seventeen, she was fifteen, the first time he kissed her.

* * *

He was twenty, she was eighteen.

"....And the staircases move, and if you're on it while it does, it's like...it's a little like flying. At first, it's like you leave your stomach behind, but you get used to it, and then -"

"It's just mildly annoying that you end up further away from where you were going." Scorpius finished flatly. Lily shot him a look, then turned back to Teddy's eldest daughter, Dora.

"And sometimes, there's doors, but they're not really doors. It's just a wall pretending to be a door." As the six year old giggled, Lily watched her fiancé roll his eyes. "And sometimes, there're doors pretending to be walls, too. I'll be back in a minute, sweetie. Scorpius, can I see you in the kitchen for a second?"

She closed the door behind them, while Dora began to draw.

"What's up with you?" She asked, turning back to him. "You're lucky she thought you were kidding. Everything I mentioned, you bitched about."

"I wasn't bitching. Exactly. Look, I'm sorry. But every time we babysit, she asks about Hogwarts -"

"She's six. Most six year olds are interested in it."

"I know. That's not a problem. You know I adore her."

"Mmm, I believe you once told me you were gonna give her fifteen years then marry her."

"At least you're aware I'm just killing time with you."

"Yeah, it's nice to know where I stand. But back on topic. What's up with you?"

"It's nothing. It's just...you talk about Hogwarts like it's perfect, and it's not."

"Not for you, maybe. But some of us found the moving staircases fun."

"I know. They were. Ignore me."

"What is it? I thought you liked Hogwarts."

"I liked the castle. I liked some of the lessons. I liked you guys. I didn't like..."

"Being bullied." Lily murmured, and her expression softened, even as he winced.

"I hate that you call it that."

"It's what it was. And you didn't deserve it."

"I know I didn't. But they all had their reasons for hassling me, and it made sense to them."

"Oh, that makes it right. It made sense to them, so it's OK." She shook her head. "It affected you. A lot. And don't you dare deny it, because no one knows you as well as I do."

"I know. When I was six, I was fascinated by the idea of Hogwarts. I'd only ever seen it at the memorial services I went to with my mother." The ones his father had hardly ever attended, Scorpius thought, understanding now, in a way he hadn't as a child, that his father had his own demons. "And she'd tell me stories, and my Aunt Daphne would. They made it sound just as amazing as you do to Dora. And then when I got there..."

"It was a disappointment." Lily finished.

"Big time. Not the actual castle. That was great. The lessons were interesting. But the parts where I was shoved down staircases, locked in closets, attacked in the hallways, spat at, yelled at, jinxed, cursed, that was disappointing."

And hurtful, Lily thought. It was far too easy to picture him as a tortured little eleven year old. So she crossed to him, slipped her arms around his waist. "I wish I could change it. If I could make it so you hadn't had to go through it all, I would."

"No. Lily, if things hadn't been like that at school, maybe I'd never have been mates with Al. So maybe I'd never have been mates with you. Maybe you'd be standing here with some other guy. If I had to go through that to end up here with you, I'd do it again and again. I wouldn't change a second of it, if that meant losing you."

Touched, she kissed him, until Dora appeared at the doorway, and proclaimed, "Gross!"

Lily broke away, grinned at her. "Let's see if you still feel that way in ten years, kid."

* * *

He was twenty-one, she was nineteen. They were young, but they were sure, and though some members of their family had worries, everyone gathered to watch them marry.

It was September, cold but not raining. And Lily didn't think she'd ever experienced this type of happiness.

When it came to saying her vows, the words came easily to her, and were heartfelt.

"Scorpius," she murmured, "some people thought, maybe they still think, that we made the wrong choice. That we shouldn't be together." Her voice probably should have been louder, but the words weren't for the watching crowd. They were for him. "They're wrong. They thought you weren't right for me, that I didn't know who you really were. But they're wrong. I know everything about you, and I know you're everything I need. So I'll promise you my love, my loyalty, my life. I could live without you, Scorpius, but I don't want to, not for a single minute. You, us, this, is the best choice I've ever made." She had tears in her eyes. So did he. When he'd proposed, she'd cried, and he'd cried with her a little. Scorpius knew that if she started to cry now, so would he. And when he spoke, his voice was a little shaky.

"Lily. You're one of the few people in this world who see who I am, and accept it. I see you, accept you, and know how lucky I am to have you in my life. You're all I need, all I want, and you complete me. You make me more than I am, more that I thought I could be, and everything I want to be. I promise you my love, my loyalty, my life, too. And I promise to do my best, always, to make you happy, to give you what you need. As long as you're by my side, I have everything."

She smiled at him, and a tear slipped out. "Don't." He murmured, and brushed it away. "I can't hold it together if you cry."

She laughed a little, but by the time they shared their first kiss as a married couple, they were both crying a little, just enough to have their tears mixing together.


	122. Imagine

**It's been a while, I know, sorry. I started work (hate hate _hate_ the job, and am already looking for a different one, if anyone cares at all) and haven't had time to write a full chapter. I do have little bits and pieces though, so hopefully I'll be able to update again soon. As for this one, I don't like it all that much, but the first bit wrote itself and I wanted to get it finished.**

**Thanks, as ever, for reviews.**

**122. Imagine**

Would he have died for her?

Would he have raced to the door, not even stopping to pick up his wand, thoughtlessly tossing his life away so she could have time to escape?

Would he?

He was shaking. Severus didn't even notice the way his body trembled as he left the castle, nor did he know where he was going. All he knew was he needed to get away from Hogwarts, and all the memories it brought.

He had to stop, halfway down the path from the castle, and sit on the ground, and close his eyes. He had nowhere to go, no one to go to.

He'd've gone to her. If he'd ever felt anything close to the way he felt now, he'd have gone to her. Even after she'd removed herself from his life (after he'd pushed her away, steadily, never believing she'd really leave him) if he'd felt like this – this unspeakable pain – he'd have gone to her.

And she'd have let him. She'd have let him into her home, she'd have offered him comfort. And then she'd have sent him off on his way, because she'd made her choice. She'd chosen her side, and he'd chosen his.

She'd chosen Potter. That, he knew, would sting for the rest of his life. He'd chosen Voldemort, and she'd chosen Potter.

And now she was dead.

He blamed Potter for it – the man, and the baby – and knew he'd hate him (them) forever.

And still, still, hadn't James tried to save her? He'd tried to give her time to get away. He'd thrown his life away without a second thought, to save hers, to save the boy. (And though he wanted to deny it, wanted to believe Dumbledore had been lying when he'd told him so, Severus knew James Potter well enough to know it was true.)

He shouldn't have asked for the details, Severus mused. It had seemed, at the time, important to know how Lily's last moments had gone, to know exactly how her life had ended. But the knowing made him feel ill, so he wished he hadn't asked.

Would she have lived if she'd chosen him? Would she be beside him right now, with that smile directed at him? Would she...might she even have their child on her hip?

He lifted his face, eyes still closed, and tried to picture it. Needed to try to picture it.

_She shot him a lazy smile, then leaned forward to swing the dark haired child onto her hip. The little boy, with her eyes, and her features, only a faint trace of himself on the face. Severus leaned back against the wall, smiling as he watched her. Then she checked the time._

_"I'd better get going."_

_"I can go tonight. You stay here, with the baby." He told her, pushing back off the wall._

_"Sev, I'm perfectly capable of carrying out the Dark Lord's wishes. I'll be back in a few hours." She walked towards him, handed him their son, and her arm shifted to reveal the dark mark burned into her flesh._

Severus blinked his eyes open, and shivered, partly from the cold, partly from the image. He'd never wanted her to join the Death Eaters. Would never have asked it off her.

_The baby was crying, and Sev was getting nervous. She should've been back by now, surely? Hours ago, in fact._

_The banging on the door made him jump, and had him reaching for his wand. He hesitated only briefly before picking up the baby and heading to the door._

_It was Lucius, and his expression was cold. There was no sympathy in his voice when he spoke the words Severus had been dreading._

_"Things got...out of hand. I'm afraid Lily was killed."_

Severus opened his eyes again, and stared, horrified, ahead of him, trying to picture anything except the image of Lily, dead, with the mark on her arm.

No. He'd never have let her join. He'd never have let her put herself at risk. No, if she'd chosen him, he'd have left Voldemort, for her. (It was easy to pretend that Voldemort had meant nothing to him, all those years ago when Lily had chosen James. It was easy to pretend that her love would have made him give it all up.)

_She was sitting, staring out of the window wistfully. "We could just go for a little walk. We can protect ourselves, Sev. We're not helpless."_

_"Lily, he wants to kill us. He's not happy I left him, and he knows I left for you. He wants to kill us both. It's not safe to go outside."_

_"I suppose." She said, and sighed, miserable._

She'd've been safe, though, Severus thought. Miserable, sure, but safe, because he wouldn't have trust anyone with her life. Not like Potter trusted his useless friends.

If she'd been with him, been in hiding with him, surely she'd be alive now?

_"Go check on the baby, Sev, he's too quiet."_

_"He's asleep." Severus replied._

_"I know, but...never mind, I'll do it."_

_He heard her go up the stairs; after minute, he heard her start back down. Then there was a bang – it took him a moment to realise it was the front door crashing open – and she screamed._

_And he stood, frozen to the spot. _

_"No – don't -" It was the sound of her voice, the fear in it, that made him move, made him run towards the hallway._

_He was too late. Lily lay crumpled on the stairs, her hair falling into her face, her limbs at awkward angles. She was dead. Even as his mind rejected it, he knew she was dead. He turned away – couldn't look at her any longer – and saw the man (creature, monster?) stood in the open front doorway. Watching. Smiling._

_"You swore to join me for life, Severus."_

_"You killed her. You killed her?"_

_As Voldemort lifted his wand, aiming it between Severus' eyes, the baby's cries echoed._

When he opened his eyes, it had started to rain. He was trembling worse than before, and again, the image of her lifeless body was burned into his mind.

Is that how it would've gone? Would he have caused her death? Would he have stood, frozen, while Voldemort had ripped her life away?

He got shakily to his feet, started to walk. James Potter had ran to the door when Voldemort had arrived, shouting a warning to his wife, running towards the most dangerous man alive in hopes of giving her time to escape with their son.

He'd been unable to move when she'd screamed, and hadn't even thought about trying to give her time to escape. To live.

Did that mean James had loved her more? Or did it simply mean they were different people, who reacted differently?

"It wasn't real." Severus murmured, almost as though he'd just remembered. The imaginings of a greif-stricken man were in no way reality, even if they had seemed to go their own way, far from anything he'd ever hoped to imagine.

None of it mattered anyway. She was dead; gone. No amount of imagining would change that.

(She'd chosen Potter. No amount of imagining would change that, either.)


	123. Storytelling

**Little bit of Rose/Lorcan. I figured it was about time I wrote something about Rose finally accepting their relationship. This takes place probably in the Easter holidays of Lorcan's last year at Hogwarts. It's not specific, though, so take it as you wish.**

**Thanks for all reviews, and if I don't update before then (I'll try, but just in case) Merry Christmas.**

**123. Storytelling**

She'd had her story planned out since she was twelve years old, from the classes she'd take in her later years, to the strings she'd pull to get herself started on her chosen career path. Her plot was a simple one, a straightforward one, with very few twists and detours.

He'd been a twist to her story. An unexpected, confusing twist, that she hadn't even considered. And one that she'd tried to ignore.

The life story of Rose Weasley did not need an epic love story. It did not need conflicting emotions and dramatic arguments and perfect kisses. Not for at least another five years, when she'd established her career, when she made something of herself. When she was the star of her story because of the things she'd accomplished, not because she happened to have a few famous relatives. She may have been prepared to use that fame, to use the contacts her family had, to get herself started (she wasn't _that_ stubborn) but she had been determined to make it on her own from then on. With hard work, determination, and whatever else it took.

Her story was supposed to move along smoothly, swiftly, never veering from the path she'd planned out for it. Lorcan was a sub-plot, something some form of fate had tossed in her way to complicate things. Where was the entertainment, after all, without complications? And where was a story without a romantic interest?

She'd tried ignoring him. He was an unwanted plot line, and one she'd been willing to leave dangling. Later, perhaps, she could go back and tie it up, knot it and put it neatly away. Maybe, when those five years were up, she could have those love scenes, let the romance into her story. It would be a nice way to set up the rest of her life, wouldn't it?

But not now. No, Rose wasn't prepared to fall in love now. While other girls had dreamed over boys, she'd given them little more than a passing interest. There had only been two who'd distracted her from her goals, for a very brief amount of time. She could look back on those now, shake her head a little, and be amused. How silly to let herself be distracted, but how sweet those stolen moments had been.

While other girls had pledged undying love, talked of marriage and children and making a home, Rose had talked of a career, of making a name for herself. Her story was not a romance one, and she was perfectly happy with that.

Lorcan had been a distraction for too long, now. She'd caught herself, too many times, putting off necessary work to meet with him, staying out late with him, so she caught only a few hours sleep and rolled into work bleary eyes and slow minded.

He was her favourite distraction, though. Of all the plot twists fate could have tossed her, he was by far the best. And she was tempted, oh so tempted, to let the sub-plot play out, to see where it ended.

But Rose Weasley did not let plot lines play out their own way. She controlled them, methodically manipulated them. It was her life, her story, and she would be in charge of it, every step of the way.

She'd tell Lorcan that. He'd understand; he knew her. She was starting to think he knew her better than anyone, in fact. But he'd understand, however angry or upset he'd be at first. She'd let him go. She'd explain that she was falling in love with him – oh, God, falling in love, at the wrong time, with the wrong kind of guy – but it couldn't happen, not now. She was willing to let go of all those old plans, of finding a like-minded person, a handsome, smooth, intelligent man, who she could settle down happily with.

Lorcan wasn't like-minded. He hadn't planned his life out at twelve. Though he was eighteen, his life was a mystery to him. He was toying with his stories, rather than making decisions. He wasn't motivated; he was the kind to let his plot line play out and be amused by any twists and turns it took.

He wasn't handsome, either; he had boyish good looks which charmed her and gave him some amount of innocence. He was charming, in his way, and he was intelligent, but he wasn't smooth, and he wasn't concerned with reading the classics, with hearing poetry by those famous, long-dead poets. He wasn't interested in art, or antiques. He liked reading – and writing – stories that amused him, that interested him, and that were, most definitely, in the modern language he understood. She'd once tried to interest him in an old text, and after he'd frowned over the archaic words, he'd pushed it aside, told her thanks, but no thanks. Poetry bored him. He liked certain pictures, disliked others, without giving any though to the ideas behind it, to the techniques used, to the meaning. He saw no sense in paying obscene amounts of money for something that had been owned a hundred times before. He was all wrong for her, really.

But she loved him, despite how much she'd tried not to. So she would make that clear, let him go, and make sure he understood that he didn't have to wait for her. That she was letting him develop his story, and if fate threw him a pretty girl or two, then she would live with it. Somehow. And if, when she was ready to start that chapter, he was free, and willing to try again, then they would.

But he didn't fit into her story, into the steps she'd outlined at twelve, so he had to go, however much it pained her.

------------------

Rose let the door close behind her, and sighed, once. Home, finally. She was free all evening; no work to do, and no plans to follow through with. It was cowardly, she knew, to back off slowly from Lorcan, to spend less time with him before she broke things off completely. It was cowardly, and it was selfish, because she was trying to ease herself into it. That wasn't fair on him, she knew; but she still couldn't bring herself to break things off with him.

She headed for the kitchen, for food, and then surveyed the contents of her cupboards unenthusiastically. She was reaching up for a jar of peanut butter when she heard the banging on the door - not knocking, but the pounding sound of someone banging their fist against the wood.

It didn't occur to her to be afraid, to be nervous. Nor did it occur to her to take her wand out of her pocket as she headed for the door. As turned out, neither one was necessary, as it was Scorpius Malfoy on the other side.

"Rose." His voice, his expression, were urgent, worried, and those instincts kicked in, had her heart rate picking up. "God. We have to go to St Mungo's. Now."

"What? Why – Who?" She swallowed, hard. "Lily." She said, because it was Lily's fiancé on her doorstep, looking scared and strained.

"No." He said, and looked straight into her eyes. "No, Rose. It's Lorcan."

She felt the shock like a blow. Not a hard one, not enough to steal her breath or have her doubling over. Maybe a part of her had known when she'd opened the door to him.

"What happened?" She asked, struggling to make sense of it.

"I'll tell on the way. C'mon." He grabbed her arm, started to pull her along. She took three steps before snatching her arm back.

"No. Tell me now. Scorpius." Her voice was a full octave higher than it ought to be, a part of her noted coolly.

"He was hit by a car." Scorpius replied, his eyes searching her face. It took her a moment to process the information, then she nodded.

"That's – that's OK. That's nothing. So he gets a few bruises, a couple of broken bones. They can fix that, everything's fine." She was talking too fast, and she knew it.

"Rose, he was pretty messed up. They're working on him, right now, and they'll fix him. But right now, Lily's with him at the hospital, and I need to be with her. And when they're done with Lorcan, he's going to need to see you, OK? So let's move."

Despite the urgency of his tone, it wasn't until he touched her arm that she understood, and took another step forward.

She gripped his arm firmly, and wasn't sure if she'd ever feel steady enough to let go.

* * *

She didn't want to go into the hospital. She probably wouldn't have if Scorpius hadn't taken hold of her wrist and pulled her inside. She couldn't focus enough to know where they were going, how they were getting there, once was inside the building; all she knew was that Lorcan was somewhere inside, broken and bleeding.

They reached a small waiting area consisting of a line of plastic blue chairs and two girls.

"Lily. Lydia." She focussed on the two girls, because to focus on Lorcan was too hard. So Rose looked at Lily; the red-headed with tear stains down her face, and Lydia, the tiny blonde obviously struggling to hold it together. They were stood with their arms around each other; together, they turned to face Rose. Lily made some kind of sound, then broke away; a second later, Rose was enveloped in her arms.

"I'm sorry. It's all my fault, Rose. It's all my fault. He was meeting me. I told him we hadn't spent enough time together lately and nagged him into meeting me. It's my fault."

"No. Stop saying that." Rose drew back, looked her cousin in the eye. "It's _not_ your fault. Listen to me. It's not your fault." Focus on Lily, a voice in her head murmured. Focus on Lily, not on Lorcan.

"He wouldn't have even been there if not for me -"

"Lily. Come on, honey, come over here and sit down." Lydia said, gently taking Lily's arm. When her eyes met Rose's, they were hopeless. Rose watched the two of them head to plastic chairs, sit down, and talk in murmurs.

"She's pretty shaken up." Rose commented.

"She was right there." Scorpius said softly. "She was right there, and he started crossing the road towards her, and she saw it. It happened right in front of her."

"God. Go sit with her, Scorpius. She needs you."

"What about you?" Finally, she turned to look at him. "I know you, Rose. I know you're holding it all in, and trying to stay strong for everyone else. Don't."

"Scorpius, Lily just watched one of her best friends get hit by a car." Think of Lily. Think of Lily, not of Lorcan. (If she thought about Lorcan, she might go to pieces, right here in front of everybody.

"And the guy you're in love with is laying in a hospital bed." His voice was harsher than she'd expected, and reminded her that Lorcan was his friend, too. "You're not gonna be able to hold it together for long, Rose."

"Go see to Lily."

He gave her a long look before nodding and walking towards Lily. He crouched in front of her, took one of her hands in his. It took Rose a moment to notice that Lydia's hand was on Lily's knee; Scorpius' free hand was on top of it, in silent support.

Suddenly, she felt extremely alone. She heard footsteps; the click of heels against the tiled floor. As she turned towards the sound, she heard her name. Allison Longbottom, arguably her closest friend, was heading up the hallways towards her.

When Lily had hugged her, Rose had gently hugged her back; when Ally hugged her, she clung. Because Scorpius was right; she could only hold it together for so long.

"I don't know how he is." Rose murmured. "I daren't ask anyone, Ally. And Lily, it happened right in front of her."

"God. Right in front of her?" Ally glanced over towards Lily, but didn't release Rose.

"This wasn't supposed to happen. He's a wizard. Wizards don't get hurt by stuff like cars."

"Sweetie, we're not invincible. Here, sit down. I'll see what I can find out."

She sat, because arguing seemed pointless. She lowered her gaze as Ally walked away – the heels clicking again – and when someone sat beside her, she didn't react, until a hand took hold of hers.

"He's going to be OK." Lysander told her quietly. "You know Lorcan."

"Yeah." And still, though she gripped Lysander's hand, she couldn't look at him. Because they were very few differences between his appearance and Lorcan's, and she wasn't sure how she'd handle that right now.

"He's strong, Rose. One little car won't keep him down for long."

She wanted to offer comfort and reassurance; he was, after all, Lorcan's twin brother. She just couldn't find the words.

At the sound of footsteps, she looked up; seeing Luna and Rolf, looking pale and scared, hurrying towards them made something inside of her twist. She lowered her gaze again, and tears burned her eyes.

Lysander left her to go to his parents. She heard more footsteps, and kept her gaze down. She didn't want to see who it was, to see more pain and fear on another face. The chairs beside hers creaked as another person lowered themself onto it; another hand took hers. It took her only a moment to realise it was Hugo. He said nothing, knowing no words could possibly help.

The first of her tears fell onto their joined hands.

* * *

She didn't want to see him. Even as she walked towards his room she wanted to run away. Lorcan, her Lorcan, was in that room, and she had no idea what to expect. His condition had been explained to her, of course, but they hadn't told her how he'd _look_.

She pushed the door open, stepped inside. And lifted both hands to her mouth.

His face was grazed. They could fix that, would fix that, but it evidently hadn't been a priority. The healer who'd come to talk to them had spoke to internal bleeding and tears, of a collapsed lung and broken ribs. Those, she imagined, would have taken priority over a few cuts and bruises. But worse, worse than that, was how small and young he looked in that bed, his eyes closed, his skin pale. Better than she'd expected, but terrifying all the same.

She sat in the chair beside his bed, gently laid her hand over his.

"Lorc?" She waited, knowing that he wouldn't speak. "It's me. I...they're saying that you're just sleeping, just resting. They've fixed you up, but you need to recover, you know? Your body needs rest. I guess I never thought about that. I've always taken magic for granted, figured it could fix pretty much anything. And I never thought something like a car would be a threat to any one of our kind. A couple bruises, maybe a broken bone or two, but easily fixed, right? I don't even know what's going on with you. They were talking about internal trauma and – and I can't concentrate on that. It scares me, because those aren't magical injuries. I don't know how well they - they can fix this kind of thing. I don't even really know how serious it all is. I can't focus enough to think about it, because you're lying in here, asleep, and I'm so scared that you won't wake up."

Her voice shook, and she had to swallow several times to clear the obstruction in her throat.

He still didn't move, didn't speak, and she closed her eyes to fight back the tears. "I need you to open your eyes for me. I know I don't have any right to ask you. You don't owe me that. I...I've been awful to you lately. You deserve better. I was trying to get up the nerve to end things, because I – I was stupid. I was thinking about my life, and the goals I had, and how you just didn't fit in to all that. That part of my life – the love part – was supposed to come along later. I figured I'd let you go, and in a few years, if you were available, I'd see if you'd give me another chance. How stupid is that?"

And how much did it make her hate herself, now? She was thinking of breaking up with him, at around the same time a car was plowing into him, all but destroying his insides.

"I don't know what I was thinking. I – I guess I just I got a little scared, and figured neither of us were ready for this. I love you, Lorcan, and it scares me. It scares me so much I was ready to let you go – but seeing you like this, worrying that you'll never open your eyes, that scares me more. I'm not ready to let you go. I never will be. I love you too much, and I – I'd fight for you, to keep you. I need you to open your eyes for me, Lorc. I just need you to open your eyes. I'm scared, and I love you, and I need you."

She lowered her head, closed her eyes. And jumped violently when he spoke.

"Sad state of affairs...when a guy has to get hit by a car to be told...he's loved."

She burst into tears before she looked up and met his eyes. "You're awake. Oh, God, you're awake."

He shifted his hand so their finger's linked. "Didn't mean to...scare you." He murmured. His voice was a little hoarse, but his eyes were clear.

"You're OK." She fought for control, and focussed on his face. "I love you. I love you so much and I'm sorry it took this to get me to admit it. I've been so stupid, focussing on all the bad things – your age and all the differences between us and how scared I was of loving you -"

"Rose. Rosie. Shh. It's OK."

"No, no it's not. It was going to break up with you. I'm a horrible person. I was going to break up with you because you didn't fit into some stupid plans I made when I was twelve."

"You gotta follow your dreams. I'd never....never ask you to give them up for me."

"I know. I know. I would, though. I need you to know that I would, if I had to. I'd give up everything for you. I can't think of a way to prove that -"

"You don't need to prove it. You – you wouldn't say it if it wasn't true." He was slurring, a little, the way he did when he was tired.

"I love you."

"You said that already. Love you, too."

"How do you feel? Do you need anything?"

He shook his head, closed his eyes. "Tired. Just tired."

She nodded shakily. "I...you should sleep. Everyone else wants to come in and see you – your parents and Zander have already been in while you were sleeping – but you can ignore them and sleep. Except, maybe Lily needs you to talk to her."

"She was there." His eyes opened again, and found hers. "She...saw?"

"Yeah. It shook her up. She thinks it's her fault, because she asked you to meet her."

He shook his head, and his eyes closed again. "Not her fault. I'll talk to her."

"OK. I'll go get her, in a minute. I, ah, just need to..." She lowered her head, rested it against his arm. "I just need a minute. I've never been so scared."

"Baby, I'm OK. I promise you, I'm OK."

"'K. Good. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd be great. No matter what, Rose, you'll be great."

"I'll be nothing without you." She murmured, feeling suddenly exhausted. "Go to sleep, Lorc. I'm just going to sit here with you for a while."

"I'm crazy about you, Rose." He murmured. She didn't look up, but knew the exact moment he fell back into sleep.

* * *

Maybe theirs wouldn't be an epic love story, and it certainly wouldn't be a perfect, fairy-tale one. But it was theirs, and she didn't want to be without it.

Her story would still be worthwhile without the romance angle, still probably enjoyable. But she was pretty certain it would be a lot more fun with Lorcan in it.

(_...And they lived happily ever after...)_


	124. Snow

**Well, this whole work thing has really cut into my writing time, huh? This one's a little pointless, and maybe it doesn't make much sense, but I wanted something Christmas-y, and something with this couple, and this is what came out. Thanks for reviews, and Happy Christmas.**

**124. Snow**

When the doorbell went, Lily jumped violently and almost spilled coffee all down her pjs. She turned towards the living room door and hesitated.

She was alone in the house, after all, and in her pyjamas. Plus, it was dark outside. Should she really answer the door at nine-thirty at night in her pjs?

Then she shook her head a little. She was nearly seventeen, far too old to be jumpy at being alone in the house while it was dark outside. And as for answering the door in her pjs, most likely it was a family member anyway.

The doorbell rang again, and she (with some reluctance) set her drink down and headed for the door. And if she picked her wand up on the way, she could always roll her eyes at herself about it later.

She pulled the door open slowly and blinked at the person on the other side. "Scorpius."

"Hi."

"Hi. Ah, what're you doing here? It's late."

"It's not that late." He said, looking at her a little curiously. "Aren't you going to let me in?" He'd never spent so long standing on the doorstep.

"Ah, um, sure. Why are you here?" She stepped back to let him in, and nearly flushed when he glanced at her.

"Busy night planned?"

"Scorpius."

He shrugged, looked around, then finally back at her. "We argued."

"I know. I was there."

"And then we didn't make up. We just both went home."

"Again, I know."

"It's Christmas Eve."

"I know that, too."

"It's not right." He shrugged, then looked defensive. "It's Christmas Eve. We shouldn't be not talking on Christmas Eve. And then tomorrow, it'll be Christmas Day -"

"Yeah, that usually follows Christmas Eve."

"- And if we don't make up now, we'll be not talking on Christmas Day. That's not right."

He finally stopped talking and simply looked at her. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"We wouldn't be _not talking_ if you weren't such an idiot."

"Yeah, you said something like that before." He replied, looking annoyed.

"It's wasn't a big deal," Lily said, a little defensively. "There was no need to get all weird about it."

He rolled his eyes, then pushed a hand through his hair. "Let's go sit down, Lily, and talk about this properly."

She hesitated, then shrugged and walked into the living room.

He sat on the sofa opposite hers, as she'd known he would. That way, she'd have to look at him, and avoid the temptation to stare at something else like a sulky child.

"I only asked you to come over on Christmas day." Scorpius said evenly.

"And I only said no." She replied. "Look, it was nice of you to ask. I said that. But I've got family stuff on Christmas day."

"I know. But don't tell me you can't take a couple of hours out of that to come to my grandparents' party. I know you can."

"Maybe I can. But they don't want me there, Scorpius. They don't like me."

"My grandmother likes you."

"No. Narcissa tolerates me because she likes you. She doesn't want me in her house, at all. And neither does your dad, Scorpius. I know you like to think he doesn't mind us being together, but it's all over his face every time he sees me. He thinks you can do better than me, and he's pretty much waiting for you to get bored of me and move on. As for your grandfather..."

"He was fine with you when you came to the party at Easter."

"No, he wasn't. He pretty much ignored my presence entirely, except for when he was sending me dirty looks. I try to set foot in his house, he'll probably – probably – get that peacock to eat me."

He snorted out a laugh. "The peacock's harmless, I swear. The one he had when I was a kid, maybe. That thing attacked me once. Lily, I really want you there."

She sighed. "I can't. Not because I can't get away from the family stuff. But I can't go to your grandparents house, be at a party with all those pureblood, stuck-up -"

"That's not really the reason." He said flatly.

"It _is_. I told you before."

"No, Lily, the reason is that two days ago you admitted you were in love with me. This is you trying to push me away because it scares you."

"It's not! This has nothing to do with that."

"Yes it does. Are you going to break up with me, Lily? Are you that freaked out that you're going to end this? Because if so, just tell me now. Don't make up stupid excuses like being scared of my grandfather, or not liking the people who'll be there. You get on well with my mother, and my aunt Daphne. Andromeda and Teddy and Vee will be there."

"Maybe. They haven't committed yet."

"Lily! It's two hours of your life, two little hours where you get free food -"

"That gross fancy food that I don't even like."

"- and spend a couple of hours standing around talking to me. Maybe you'll have to dance a little -"

"I can't dance. Not even a little. Take Lydie. She can dance."

"- and talk to some of those people you don't like. But then I'll take you home, and you'll be free. Just a couple of hours. That's all I'm asking. I go to your family things all the time. Every time you ask me to."

"That's different. My family is different. You know that."

He looked at her, then nodded. "Yeah, they are. But my family is still my family, Lily, and I'm a part of them whether you like it or not. Hell, whether _I_ like it or not. So if this really is about them, you'll have to decide if you can put up with them or not. And if it's about the – the love thing – you'll have to decide what you're going to do about that."

She said nothing. After a little while, he shook his head, and stood. "You let me know."

She watched him leave, then, when she heard the front door close, she jumped up and swiftly followed him.

She stopped just outside the front door, and yelled, "You're still an idiot!"

He turned back to face her.

"And I'm sixteen! I'm allowed to get freaked out when I _fall in love_ especially if it's with an idiot!"

The first snowflake fell slowly, landing on the walkway between them.

He let out a frustrated laugh. "Fine then! Be freaked out. But don't blame me for it!"

The second snowflake fell a little faster, landing a few feet from the first.

"I'm not blaming you! And I'm not blaming you for having a horrible family, either!" She hesitated, as the third, forth, and fifth snowflake fell, one after the other, quicker than the first two. "If it means that much to you, I'll go to the stupid party, OK? And if your psycho grandfather tries to kill me, hey, joke's on you!"

"Yeah, sure, that's likely. Grow up will you?" The snow was falling, properly now.

"I don't want to!" She cried, then threw up her arms. "What more do you want from me? I said I'll go to the stupid party. I'll eat the disgusting food and smile at all the snobs and maybe I'll even dance badly with you. What else do you want from me?"

He stepped closer, as the snow fell thicker. "Are you going to break up with me?"

"No! I love you, remember? It scares me, OK, it scares me so much I can barely breathe, but I don't want to be without you! That's what you've done to me! You've turned me into one of those girls who can't imagine their life without their boyfriend. How pathetic is that?"

"Well I can't imagine my life without you, either, so we're both as pathetic as each other." He stepped closer, snow gradually coating him. "I love you. You're going to have to learn to be OK with that, because I can't see it changing any time soon."

"Fine!"

For a long moment, they stared at each other through the snow, now falling thick and fast. Then she swore, and ran down the steps and the path to him. She flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him, hard, taking him completely by surprise.

"We're not fighting anymore, then?" He asked when they finally broke apart.

"You can't argue in the snow." She murmured. "It's just not allowed."

He shook his head, smiling at her, then kissed her. He might never have stopped, had he not realised she was wearing only pyjamas and socks. Pulling back, he lifted her off the ground. "You'll freeze."

"I don't care."

"I do." He carried her, a little clumsily, up the path, and the steps. They stood in the doorway, watching the snow, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist.

"Merry Christmas." She murmured, trying not to shiver.

"Merry Christmas." He echoed.


	125. Potter Malfoy

**More Lily/Scorpius stuff. Apologies to anyone who doesn't like them, and I realise you're all probably getting sick of them. I'll try to write something else next time.**

**Thanks, as ever, for all reviews, and Happy New Year everyone.**

**125. Potter-Malfoy**

"When we get married..." Scorpius began, leading to that now familiar twist in Lily's stomach that was part nerves, part excitement, "are you, uh, going to take my last name?"

She paused. It wasn't something she'd thought about, preoccupied with the fact that she was going to get _married_, have a wedding, be a wife. A small detail such as her surname hadn't entered her mind. "Ah, that's what usually happens." She said finally.

"Yeah, I know. But, um," he hesitated, toying with a strand of her hair, "well it's not exactly the best surname. I mean, people hear it and think – well, you know."

"I know." She murmured. She'd watched him suffer for it, hadn't she?

"So, I just want to make sure you know I don't mind if you want to keep _your_ surname. It's not important to me." He shrugged, and didn't quite meet her eyes when she twisted to look at him.

"It's traditional, though." She said, not knowing what else to say.

"Less and less people are actually doing it. It's completely your choice. If you don't want to be a Malfoy, I can't say I blame you."

She looked at him, trying assess his expression. "I'll think about it." She said finally.

* * *

"Boo." Lily said, two days later, as she walked into their kitchen.

"Morning." Scorpius replied. "Getting closer." He added, and she didn't have to ask what he meant. Her stomach twisted in response to the mention of the wedding.

"I know. Sure you want to go through with this?" She teased.

"My idea, remember? But," he added seriously, "if _you_ change your mind, that's..."

"Don't say it's OK, because we both know it's not."

"You're only nineteen." He pointed out.

"I know. And I thought about that, and all the other reasons to not marry you." She said lightly. "And none of them changed my mind." She held up her left hand, let the engagement ring flash in the light. "I love you. I'll always love you. And I want to marry you."

"OK." He murmured, and nodded once. Silly, really, to need to hear it, but he was still glad she'd said it.

"You're supposed to say it back." She told him, flashing the grin that always made him smile.

"I love you." He said dutifully, unable to stop the smirk. "I'll always love you. And I want to marry you."

"Thank you." She said, then accepted the coffee he held out to her. "Speaking of the wedding, I've been thinking about the surname issue."

"Ah."

"Yeah." She sipped. "If you're sure it really doesn't matter to you -"

"I'm sure." He said, then wondered why his heart sank a little.

"I was thinking I'd like to hyphenate."

He blinked. "Hyphenate."

"Yeah. Lily Potter-Malfoy. I want to take your surname, Scorpius. I wouldn't feel right if I didn't. But I, um, had a little trouble with the idea of letting _my_ name go. So this..." She faltered a little under his stare. "This seems right. It feels right, for me. Is that OK?"

He smiled, and she relaxed. "It sounds right, too." He hesitated, then continued because he knew he could say anything to her. "What about, um, Scorpius Potter-Malfoy?" He very nearly blushed, feeling absolutely ridiculous. "How do you think that sounds...?"

It was her turn to stare, then she tilted her head a little. "The guy usually keeps his name."

"Usually." He nodded. "But it seems fairer this way. We're, um, equal, aren't we? I'd like us to have the same last name."

"You said you didn't care what my last name was."

"I didn't think I did. But this way, you'd take mine, and I'd take yours, and, well, if you don't want to..." He trailed off, and shrugged. Trying, she was aware, to act like it was unimportant. And not fooling her for a second.

"I think," Lily said slowly, "that's a really great idea. I don't think your family will like it that much, but for us...I like it. I really like it."

He grinned, his eyes lit.

* * *

"Congratulations." Lucius Malfoy bit off the words, his eyes cold. He looked only at his grandson, without showing any sign of awareness towards his new granddaughter-in-law.

"Thank you." Scorpius said, just as coldly.

Lily looked awkwardly at Narcissa, who stood beside her husband looking faintly embarrassed. Her eyes, when they met Lily's, we apologetic. "It was a beautiful ceremony." She murmured.

"Thank you." Lily said quietly. Lily couldn't quite manage to like the women, exactly, but she appreciated the effort.

"Mr and Mrs Malfoy, hmm?" Narcissa added, in a decidedly forced voice. "How does that feel?"

Lily looked sideways at her new husband. "You didn't tell them."

He looked back at her. "I thought my father would." He murmured, then turned back to his grandparents. "We're, ah, not actually Mr and Mrs Malfoy."

Narcissa looked confused; Lucius kept his face expressionless.

"It's Potter-Malfoy." Scorpius continued. "As in, Scorpius Potter-Malfoy, and Lily Potter-Malfoy."

"Oh." Narcissa managed finally.

"You are a Malfoy, Scorpius." Lucius murmured.

"Now I'm a Potter-Malfoy." Annoyed, he glared back at his grandfather. "I realise you're worried about the future of the surname. Well, I guess it dies with me, huh? No great loss, grandfather. If you'll excuse us, we have to go talk to the people who are actually happy for us." His hand on the bottom of Lily's back, he drew her away. "Sorry about that." He murmured.

"You shouldn't let him upset you." She replied quietly, slipping her arm around his waist. "I, uh, didn't think about how the name would die. There aren't any other Malfoys, are there?"

"No. There's a one son tradition. Like I said, no great loss." He sighed, then stopped walking and turned to face her. "Don't worry about it." He trailed a knuckle lightly down her face. "Don't worry about him. I don't know why he even came."

"I, um, kind of told him to." Lily admitted. "I went to see him after the engagement party."

"You went to see Lucius?"

"Yeah. I should've told you. I don't really know why I didn't. I told him to come to the wedding, and to act like he accepted us." She shrugged. "I guess the second part was too much to hope for. He still looks like he's going to shove me down a staircase at the first opportunity."

"He'll never hurt you." Scorpius promised, his voice low. "He'll never touch you."

"I know." She said, and touched his neck briefly, before resting her hand on his shoulder. "I know. So, hey, this one son tradition thing, we're going to let that die, too, right? 'Cause my family, we don't stop at one kid." She flashed that grin, and he relaxed, letting all thoughts of his grandfather go, and smiled back.

"Oh, absolutely. We might as well break all the rules, huh?"

"There's that Potter spirit." She murmured, and rose on her tiptoes to kiss him, as her words made him realise how completely he'd been accepted into her family. He brushed her hair away from her eyes.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Spend all day bored, probably."

"Probably." He agreed.


	126. Friendships and Phobias

**Well, this whole job thing has been cutting into my writing time, and I've been working on something else, too, so this is all I've got to offer you at the minute. Thanks a lot for the reviews last time.**

**126. Friendship and Phobias**

"We'll be early." Rose commented, as the two of them headed up a staircase. They were in their sixth year, now, feeling settled at Hogwarts, and often thinking nervously of the future. At the minute, however, they were thinking of the Ancient Runes class they were heading for.

"Only a little. Ooh, actually, let's go this way a sec." He took her arm to pull her down a corridor, releasing it when she fell into step with him. "I've got a letter I need to send off. Might as well do it now."

"A letter? Oh. Ah, you know, I don't think we've really got time." She said quickly, walking reluctantly. "I mean, um, if we go up to the Owlery, then you've gotta get the letter sent, by the time we get to class -"

"We'll be on time." Scorpius finished, looking at her curiously. "It'll only take me a second to get it sent, Rose. We'll probably still be early."

She said nothing.

She fell behind him as he walked into the Owlery, and said nothing as he attached his letter to his owl's leg, and carried the owl to the window. He watched it leave, then turned back to the door.

Rose was stood in the doorway, her eyes darting wildly from one owl to the other, twisting her hands together.

"Rose? You OK?" He asked, stepping back towards her.

"Fine. Are you done? Can we go now?" Her voice was slightly higher than normal, he noted. He looked at her for a long moment, and then realised it was fear in her eyes. It took him only a moment longer to connect the dots.

"Are you...scared of owls?" He asked, tilting his head and watching her.

"No. Of – of course not. Can we go now?"

"You are, aren't you? You're actually scared of owls." He was surprised and, though he knew he shouldn't be, amused.

"Don't be -" She began, managing to fix him with an annoyed look. She was cut short, however, when a massive barn owl chose that moment to swoop down and out of a window, passing within three feet of Rose's face. This was, apparently, too much, as she made a squeaking sound and spun around, running away.

He caught up with her at the end of the corridor, trying to hide his smirk. "Are you OK?"

"Um-hmm. Let's just go to class. I, ah, which..." She looked blindly around, burning with humiliation. "What do we have?"

"Rose. Hey, calm down." He grabbed her arm, looked at her with concern. "Are you OK?"

"Sorry." She murmured, drawing back, mortified. "I, uh, it's stupid. I know it's stupid. They just, ah, freak me out a little."

"You're a witch. Haven't you grown up around them?"

"They've always freaked me out." She admitted. "Listen, if you wouldn't tell anyone..."

"You can't tell me no one else has noticed?"

"Um, Hugo and my parents. And I told Hagrid. He was going to buy me an owl for my eleventh birthday..."

He couldn't help the snort of laughter. "Sorry. Is that why you have the cat?"

"Yeah. He bought me that instead. He's like allergic to them, but he understood, and, ah...no one else knows, though, except Ally. Even Albus..."

"You've never told Albus? I thought you guys knew everything about each other."

"Most things." Rose shrugged. "That's what happens when you grow up together. But, ah, he'd never shut up about this, and he'd tell James, and every chance James got he'd – well, you've met him. Don't tell anyone. Please?"

"Of course not."

"And, um, if you'd just never bring it up again, that would be..."

He smiled, and nodded. "We'll just forget it ever happened."

"Great. Thanks. I owe you one."

"Nah, you don't. I'll give you this one for free." They started back down the corridor, Rose trying to convince herself not to be embarrassed, and Scorpius realising, for the first time, that he and Rose were actually friends, rather than just each a friend of Albus's, forced to spend time together.

It was nice to know, he decided.


	127. Brothers in Arms

**Probably been a little while since I updated. Not getting as inspired as I used to, sadly. Not so cool. Not a happy chapter, really, but I'll try for something lighter next time.**

**Thanks, as always, for all the reviews.**

**127. Brothers in Arms**

_"Go on, mate, get that down you." Sirius handed James a drink, grinning. "Last night as free man, and all that."_

_James grinned back, and downed the liquid. _

_"He's not sorry about losing his freedom, though, are you James?" Remus said, refilling James' empty glass, as well as Peter's._

_"Nope. Not to Lily." James grinned stupidly, not yet drunk but deliriously happy. "Bring on the shackles."_

_Peter, already half-drunk, sniggered as though it was the best joke in the world. James looked at him affectionately. _

"Go on, Remus. Have another drink." Arthur held up the bottle, and Remus held out his glass for a refill. "Not much of a stag night, but -"

"I'm a little old for stag nights." Remus replied.

Arthur raised his eyebrows, but didn't slip into the familiar age debate. It bothered him to see someone so young view himself so negatively. "Either way, we should have some sort of celebration. Tonight's your last night as a free man."

Remus could have said something self-pitying about how he'd never been a free man, but instead he smiled. "I think I can live with that."

_Peter was nearly passed out, flopped back on the sofa. James was on the floor, leaning against the wall, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Sirius was hiccupping, even as he poured more drinks out._

_"Who'd you think'll be next?" Sirius asked. "Now our Prongs here is getting a ring on his finger, who's next for the old ball and chain?"_

_Remus snorted, and leaned forward for his glass. "Well, they're not exactly queuing up for me."_

_"That's because you show no interest, Moony." James said, his stupid smile fading slightly into an expression that was as close to serious as he could currently manage. "Any time a girl looks at you -"_

_"They don't know what I am, though." Remus said, his tone light, though his heart was not. "If they did, they'd be running away."_

_"So you're never getting married, then?" Peter asked, lifting his head for the first time in twenty minutes. Remus shifted uncomfortably as all eyes slipped to him. _

_"I, um, don't really think I...Who'd want to marry a werewolf?"_

_"Who'd want to marry Sirius?" James replied evenly, and Sirius managed to look both amused and offended at once. "Trust me, Moony, you will find that girl, the one who'll take you as you are. She won't care that you're a werewolf, anymore than she'll care that you snore, or that you're a boring git."_

_"Hey!"_

"You're lucky, you know. I know you've had your problems with Tonks, but you're lucky to have her. Not every man finds someone who loves him so completely."

"I know. I still can't believe..."

"I'm glad you finally came to your senses."

"Me too." Remus murmured. And he was. Even though he knew he wouldn't be able to hold all those doubts and fear at bay for much longer. Even though he knew it had been reckless and stupid to propose, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it. Nor could he bring himself to back out of it.

It had been his idea, and it had taken him a little while to convince Tonks he was serious, that he really _wanted_ to get married.

Just as it had been his idea to marry as soon as possible, rather than waiting. Why wait? They could all be dead tomorrow.

It wouldn't be the day Tonks had dreamed off. He was sorry for that. There would be no huge guest list, no loud party, no honeymoon. They'd marry quickly, simply, in a small, quiet ceremony, with the threat of imminent death hanging over them.

Maybe, maybe if they survived – and that was a big if – they could re-do it. Bigger and better and happier. Maybe.

_"Do you think we're crazy? Getting married in the middle of a war?" James asked suddenly. They'd been quiet for several minutes, all of them lost in their own thoughts._

_"Nah. Makes more sense to get married now, before we're all killed." Sirius said easily. _

_"Thanks, Padfoot. Lovely thought. I'm serious, though. Not going to be the best atmosphere, is it?"_

_"I think...as long as you're both happy, and you want to get married, it'll be a good atmosphere." Peter offered, his voice slightly slurred. He blinked once, then laid his head back down and closed his eyes._

_"Huh. Maybe. I'll never regret it." And his smile was back. "I know I'll never regret it, no matter what happens."_

"Did you ever regret getting married?" Remus asked suddenly. When Arthur blinked, he rushed on. "Not _regret_ exactly, I mean. Did you ever wonder if you'd done the wrong thing?"

"No. Molly and I had our ups and downs, but I always knew it was right. Are you worried you'll regret getting married?"

Remus paused, thinking it through. "No. I don't think I will. And, even if – at some point – I do regret it, I think...I don't think I'll ever really wish it didn't happen."

"No. I don't think you will, either."

_They stood around, the three men, brothers of the groom in all the ways that mattered, and grinned, happy because James was. The reality of the war meant nothing to them in here; only James and Lily did. There was little sadness and worry on the faces of the guests; and the bride and groom were luminous._

_When the ceremony was over, Sirius grabbed Lily and spun her around, giving her smacking kiss. Remus flung his arms around both Lily and James, saying something he'd never be able to quite recall – excited, giddy ramblings of congratulations that left his memory as soon as he'd spoken them – and Peter kissed Lily's cheek, before hugging James._

_There were other guests, other congratulations, but Remus always remembered that it had been the three of them – himself, Sirius and Peter – who'd been the first, who'd been the most enthusiastic. They were a family, a band of brothers, and he wasn't sure he'd truly realised that until that moment._

The ceremony was so small, they looked more like a few friends gathering for a conversation than a wedding party. And they hadn't quite managed to escape reality. Moody kept checking his watch, no doubt trying to keep track of half a dozen things he needed to be doing as soon as he was finished here; Molly couldn't quite erase the worry from her eyes; Arthur looked tired, and signs of strain showed on every face.

Even his bride, lovely as she was, looked tense.

When it was done – the vows said, the rings set in place, the kiss over – there were congratulations and hugs.

But no Sirius there to sweep up the bride and swing her around, to kiss her loudly. And there was no James, either, to offer his own congratulations – with a hug, a kiss, a joke of his own. And no Peter to offer simple hugs and kisses, not quite as boisterous as his brothers, but sweet in his shyness.

There were no brothers to welcome Tonks into their family. There was no family anymore. It had been torn apart, so many years ago, and the pieces were long gone.

He slipped his arm around Tonks, needing the contact. Because even if they did survive this war, even if they did re-do their wedding, bigger and better, his brothers would never be there.

"Are you OK?" Tonks asked quietly.

"Yes." He said, and managed a smile. He wasn't, after all, alone anymore. "Looks like you're stuck with me now. You're my family, Dora. For better or worse."


	128. Unrequited Love

**Been a while, I think. I've got a few bits that will, eventually, become Jigsaw Pieces, so hopefully the next update shouldn't be too much longer. Thanks, as ever, for reviews, I love you for them.**

**128. Unrequited Love**

She was dancing. He watched her, not even blinking, lest he miss something – a movement, a smile, a laugh – as she danced around the room with another man. They were stood too close together, the Baron thought bitterly. She was laughing a little too enthusiastically at whatever joke the wizard had made. As for the wizard, he looked, as could only be expected, thrilled.

_It should be me_, the Baron thought bitterly. He should be the one Helena Ravenclaw was dancing with, smiling at. He should be the one holding her close. He was the man who loved her, after all.

Her eyes met his, through the crowd of dancing figures. She nodded her head in acknowledgement, offered a smile, before turning back to the other man.

The Baron clenched his hand into a fist. He loved her. Almost to the point of obsession, he loved her. And the fact that she obviously didn't feel even a shadow of that for him made him hate her, almost as much.

* * *

He couldn't help himself. Gellert was leaning forward, studying one of his books intently, searching for any information that might help them in their quest. His tongue was sticking out of his mouth a little, and he was frowning in concentration. His hair, almost sparkling in the sun, fell over his forehead.

God, he loved him. It was still scary, and he was almost ashamed of it. Gellert was his best friend, after all, and he was _male_...such things were unheard of.

Albus dragged his eyes away, and back to his own book. It was wrong, he was sure, to have such feelings for Gellert. And if anyone was ever to find out, he didn't know what would happen. If Gellert was ever to know...

The idea of it made him shiver. If Gellert were to find out just how deep Albus' feelings for him ran, he would be disgusted, Albus was sure. Disgusted and horrified, and Albus would lose him completely, forever. Gellert would walk out of his life – run out of it screaming, more likely – and never come back.

Albus stole another look, then guilty went back to the book. If he had to be content with just being friends – and he did – then he would find a way to see that as enough, rather than far, far too little.

* * *

She walked slowly, hand in hand with Potter. As if it wouldn't have been bad enough to see her like that with any other boy – but Potter? Of all people, why had she selected the one who would hurt him the most?

She laughed, tossing her hair back, her face lit up. She smiled at Potter – such a smile. Had she ever smiled at him like that? Her eyes so alight, her face glowing? She looked so happy, and so brilliantly in love.

He'd have given anything – all of his possessions, his life, his soul – for her to love him that much. He'd cry for it, bleed for it, beg for it. If she would look at him like that, just once, if she would feel for him just half of what she so obviously felt for Potter...

Severus dug his fingernails into his palms as Potter bent his head and captured that smiling mouth with his. In that moment, he could have killed them both, for the pain he felt.

Instead, he turned and walked away, his hands trembling and his heart breaking.

* * *

She'd watched him dance with Parvati, watched him talk to Ron. She'd sort of hoped he might ask her for a dance, too, especially since Paravti seemed to have left him, now. He showed no interest, though, in dancing.

Nor did he, as ever, show any interest in her.

It was stupid, she told herself yet again, to still have that silly, childish thing for him. She'd long since accepted that he'd never look at her as anything more than Ron's little sister, but she couldn't quite kill off that last little hope.

She caught herself looking over at him again, and turned away, annoyed. It wasn't like she loved him or anything. Probably. But this stupid, childish crush had to go. Not only was it pathetic and humiliating, but pointless, as well, since he was never going to even consider her.

She stood, brushed at her dress robes, and set her jaw. That was it. She was _over_ Harry Potter. For good.

(Even as she danced with the surprisingly amusing and rather adorable Michael Corner, she caught herself stealing glances at Harry, a part of her still wishing he was the one she was dancing with. Knowing that she'd never be all the way over him made her want to scream.)

* * *

She was his friend. His friend, and the next thing to a cousin to him. He had to remember that. She was Lily, that girl he'd grown up with, the one who used to race him around the garden (and beat him more often than not) and play fight with him. The one who'd made fun of him at every opportunity, argued with him multiple times, stood up for him when others had teased him, listened when he needed her to, and laughed at all his jokes.

She was his friend, his cousin, his sister. Or she had been.

How had things shifted? When had they changed? As children, everything had been simple, easy. But for years now, it had been different, more complex. He _liked_ her, thought he might even love her. He'd struggled with whether he should leave things as they were, or make a move – try and change things. Make things how he wanted them to be.

He'd waited. He'd struggled, and waited, and left it too late. And there she was, with Scorpius, looking all happy and giddy.

As far as she was concerned, he was just Lysander, her friend, an honorary cousin. He was just that boy she'd grown up with, laughed with a fought with. And that's all he'd ever be. Just her friend.

He turned away from her, walked away, and told himself he would get over this weird crush on her. He had to.


	129. War

**A common theme, here, I know, but I can't help myself. It sort of fascinates me. Focussing on more minor characters, though, and it's not exactly the same as my other stuff.**

**The Padma/Ravenclaw boys friendship that's briefly mentioned towards the end belongs to Dodger Gilmore, as featured in her work. I'm not stealing it, it's just the way I see it now, thanks to her stories, so full credit to her on that one.**

**129. War**

The fear. God, God the fear. It was choking her, and crushing her heart. Her breath was coming in fast, hard hitches, and she couldn't seem to even it out. Had to, had to be quiet, because she needed a break, just a little break, a little rest, and she had to be quiet or they'd find her.

Hannah gasped out a few more breaths, then slapped a hand to her mouth in a bid to muffle the sound. Her heart was beating, so fast, so hard, she thought it must be audible over the sound of the battle. And, wow, she ached. She'd never ached so much; her bones, her muscles. Her stomach, her head, her heart. So was sore, and she was tired, and she didn't want to die.

She'd never realised that before. There had even been times when she'd thought of death, thought how it must be easier, _better_, than life. When she'd all but wished for it. But now, with death so close it was like a shadow stalking her, she knew she didn't want to die. And the fear, of her own death, of her friends' deaths, of losing, the fear of pain, of Voldemort, of the Death Eaters she was fighting, was making her shake, so much she couldn't hold her wand steady.

Just a little rest, Hannah told herself, her vision blurring in tiredness, her mind lethargic. Just a little rest. She crawled into an alcove, closed her eyes, and thought vaguely that they might mistake her for another one of the dead, and might just leave her be, if only she could stop her breath hitching, her heart pounding.

When she heard a scream, so close, so loud and pain-filled, it broke her last nerve, and she burst into tears. And, with those tears rolling down her face, with her breath still hitching in her raw throat, her every muscle screaming from the strain, she struggled to her feet and towards the sound, to do what she could to help.

Because there was no time to rest, no time to crawl into alcoves and think that she was too young to be facing all of this.

* * *

He sort of thought he was going to die. It wasn't like he was giving up, or that he was going to stop battling to survive, but it felt more and more like he was losing. He was bleeding from his side, and he wasn't quite sure how it had happened. His shoulder was burning, and he thought maybe he'd dislocated it or something.

There were a million other aches and pains, but Seamus couldn't stop to count them up, to assess how bad the damage was, or how much longer he could keep pushing himself. The human body had limits, and he worried he was dangerously close to his own.

He coughed again, failed to clear his throat of the dust that coated it. His eyes stung, but no amount of blinking could clear them.

And there were worse things to think about. He'd just killed a man. He'd never believed himself capable - not when he'd first learned of the killing curse, not when he'd started DA lessons, and not when he'd first thrown himself into this battle. Had it really only been a few hours since he'd sat in the Great Hall, sick with nerves and excitement?

Just a few hours, but it felt like a lifetime. He felt like a different person. A person capable of murder.

Was it murder? He'd killed the man to save himself, and those around him. He'd killed a man who'd surely committed murder himself. But he'd still killed. Oh, Merlin, he'd killed. He'd taken a life, and whatever the circumstances that one fact remained the same.

Everything was changing, Seamus thought, even as he stood there. Everything was shifting, changing, and it would never change back.

He stumbled through the rubble, cringing away from the bodies. And almost tripped over Lavender's lifeless form. For a moment, everything inside him froze, until he finally saw the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She was breathing. She was alive.

But her face, her arms...a torn, bloody mess. Sinking to his knees beside her – forgetting to be on his guard, to look for danger – he swallowed, hard, and fumbled for her hand as tears burned in his eyes, washing out some of the dust.

Yes, everything was going to change.

* * *

How had it come to this? Hell, just a few short years ago he and Seamus had been swapping crude jokes and talking about Quidditch and football and girls they liked. War and death were far from their minds. But here he was, in the middle of battle.

Wasn't he too young for this? Slumping against a wall, struggling to focus, Dean tried to remember how old he was. Surely he was too young for all of this, to be stood feet away from a dead body, to be battling with skilled wizards who would kill him without a second thought. Surely he should be home, safe, while the adults dealt with this?

Was he an adult? He couldn't quite...yes, yes, he was. Technically, he was of age. Legally, he was a man.

But he didn't feel like it. He felt like a boy, one who told sat around for hours with his best friend, telling jokes and explaining football. One who cheered at Quidditch games and checked out girls. He wasn't ready for this, to be a man and fight in wars. He wasn't _ready_.

He wanted to go home. He just wanted to be home, warm and safe, with his family, knowing everyone was alive and well and that none of this was happening. Maybe it was a dream, Dean though, weak and confused from the lack of sleep, from the strain of the last few hours – the last year, really.

He had to do something. Had to...What was it? He had to...move away from the wall. Back to the battle. Be a man, and fight.

He wasn't a boy any more. No, he wasn't a boy, and he'd never be one again.

Even as he pushed away from the wall, trying to clear his head and focussed, he mourned for the loss.

* * *

She had to stop fighting. Too much time had passed mindlessly battling, just trying to stay alive, thinking only of what jinx or curse to use next. But she had to stop now, stop and find everyone, make sure they were all still...No. They _were_ all still alive. Because to lose anyone she loved...it might just break her.

Parvati. Terry. Michael. Anthony. They were the main ones, Padma thought quickly, moving through the crowd. She sent a jinx towards a hooded figure almost automatically, and scanned the crowd. She had to find them, had to assure herself they were OK. They were all alive, of course, had to be alive, but they could be in any state, and they could need her. She hadn't meant to let this much time pass without checking for them, but it was so hard to keep thinking straight in all the chaos.

War was nothing like she'd thought it would be. Had she ever really thought about it, every really formed an idea of what it would be like? Maybe. If she had, it had been nothing like this. And if she hadn't, well, it was just as well, because this was unimaginable.

That was how she knew it was real. This was no nightmare, so twisted fantasy. No mind could think up something like this, no mind could construct anything close to this. It was real.

"It's real. It's real." She all but whimpered it, the reality sinking in for the first time. It was real, and she couldn't stop it just by willing it; she couldn't wake up and make it stop, she couldn't force it to change.

Just like she couldn't guarantee that the people she loved were alive. As much as she needed them to be, as much as she tried to convince herself they were, they could all be...

A dry sob clawed out of her throat, her stomach clutching. She retched, once, and staggered to the side, trying to control herself, as the room started to spin.

A hand clutched her upper arm, hard enough to steady her, to stop the room spinning. "Pad. Padma."

"Michael?" She recognised the voice, and when she could focus, recognised the face. "Michael!" She threw her arms around his neck – one of her best friends, one of her loved ones, safe, alive - forgetting, for a moment, where they were, forgetting everything but that he was alive. "It's real." She said, staring into his eyes. "I need to find Parvati – and Terry, and -"

"OK. I know. Calm down. Breath." He said, his voice jerky.

"It's real." She said again, as though still hoping she was wrong about that one, crucial point. And knowing, beyond all doubt, that she wasn't.

* * *

Parvati was crying. She wasn't sure when she'd started crying, and wasn't sure she'd ever stop. Her hands were trembling, too, so her aim was off. She was still doing OK – well, she was alive, so that was something – but she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep it up.

Had she ever known reality could be like this? This bad, this terrifying and painful and horrific? Had it ever occurred to her that one day, she'd stand at the top of those marble stairs, look down, and see a boy – a boy who's face she recognised, one who'd she'd seen day after day and never taken much notice of, one who's name she'd never bothered to learn, who's voice she'd never heard – fall to the floor, all life gone? Had she ever thought she'd aim her wand at a woman's face and deliberately cause her unspeakable pain? Had she ever thought she'd feel this hopeless, this alone, this close to death?

No. Of course not. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Life was never supposed to be like this. She didn't want to die, and she didn't want to lose anyone. Padma was out there, somewhere, and Parvati didn't know if she was even still breathing. Lavender was out there, too, but Parvati didn't know if her heart still beat.

She'd feel it, Parvati told herself, pushing forward, wand clutched tightly in a shaking hand. If one of them had – please, no, _no_ – lost their lives, she'd feel it. They were bonded – she and Padma had been born with an unbreakable bond, and she and Lavender had forged one just as strong over the years – and bonded so tightly that she'd have _felt _it, if one of them were to leave her. She'd have heard that bond snap.

She _would_.

She yelped when Voldemort's voice cut through the sounds of the battle, and struggled, for a long moment after the sound stopped, to understand. When it sunk in, she couldn't help herself; she sank to the floor, dragged in a shaky breath.

"It's OK." Someone – did she know them? – told her gently. "It's OK. It's over."

Parvati shook her head. How could it be, how could it ever be? Whatever happened, they'd carry this night around with them, for the rest of their lives.

"It'll never be over. Not for us." She whispered. And the truth of it terrified her.


	130. Never Fall

**Not my best work, I don't think, but this has been sat waiting for me to finish and post it for weeks. Plus, quick update. Thanks, of course, for reviews.**

**130. Never Fall**

_Dear Harry_

_I hate you. You're not here, and I hate you for it. I should know better, by now, to have any feelings for you what so ever. But apparently I don't. Apparently I'm still that stupid kid who likes the guy she'll never have. You left me, you walked away without a backwards glance, and still, I miss you. I hate you for that, too, for the kind of girl you make me into. This isn't who I want to be. This isn't who I would be, if not for you. I hate you for doing this to me. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being that girl, sick of thinking about you, missing you, worrying about you. I'm sick of remembering you, sick of thinking about how you made me smile. Yeah, you made me smile, but you still rejected me, and I'll always remember that, too._

_So I'm not going to wish for you back anymore. I'm not going to ask for you to hurry back to me, to wait and welcome you. _

_Don't come back, Harry. I don't want you to. I don't want you anymore._

- _Ginny_

She set her pen down slowly, scanned the words she'd written nearty, slowly, carefully. Then sighed, and screwed up the paper. She tossed it into the fire, and watched it burn. She could think, write, scream the words. If only she could mean them, too.

Her life, she was sure, would be so much easier without him, without the way she felt about him. But she still couldn't break free; after everything that had happened, he still had a hold over her. And the worst part was knowing how little he'd done to put that hold over her; she'd managed it almost all by herself.

* * *

_Dear Ron_

_You've hurt me before. Countless times, with careless ease. You've made me cry, multiple times. Did you know that? Did you ever realise that you'd reduced me to tears? Reduced me to the kind of girl that cries over a boy. That's not me, but it's what you made me._

_This is worse. You walked away from us. From me. You didn't look back, and you didn't answer when I called after you. I begged you to come back, and you didn't. I never thought, in all those year you hurt me and made me cry, that you'd walk away from me when I begged you to stay. I always assumed I could count on you, when it really mattered. For all your faults, you were there for me when I needed you._

_But not this time. I need you, I need you here with me and Harry, and you're not. You walked away and you broke my heart. See that? You've made me one of those girls who talk about broken hearts. I never wanted to be one of those girls._

_I begged you to come back, and I cried for you, night after night. No more. I won't beg again, I won't cry over you again. Don't come back to you, Ron, we don't need you. I don't need you, and I don't want you. Don't come back._

- _Hermione_

She snapped the quill. For a moment, she stared at the broken pieces in surprise, then, very carefully, set them down. She screwed the lid back on the ink bottle, then looked down at the letter. She'd never send it. Not only because she had no way of sending it, or because of the security risks. But because she knew she'd written lies. She'd still want him back, and she'd still cry over him. She still needed him, and still wanted him.

Would it always be that way? Would he keep hurting her, and would she keep letting him? Would she keep loving him, even when she told herself, even when she believed, that she didn't deserve it?

She tore the letter into tiny pieces, and, quietly, so Harry wouldn't come back inside to see what she was doing, she set fire to each piece.

* * *

_Dear Remus_

_I'll never forgive you for this. I forgave you everytime you doubted me, doubted us. All those times you'd say we shouldn't be together - did you ever realise just how much that hurt me? - I forgave you. Even when I hated you for it, I loved you enough to forgive you. Every time you hurt me, every time you mad me angry, I forgave you. Out of love, Remus. That love that you so often doubted._

_But this? How could I ever forgive this? How could it be possible to love enough to forgive this? You walked away, Remus, you cut my heart to shreds and walked away from me, from the baby. Our baby. I would have been our baby, our son or our daughter. But you didn't want us, you walked away, and now it's my baby, mine. Do you realise what you've given up?_

_You broke my heart. I thought you'd done that, before. I really thought you broken my heart, but that was nothing compared to this. This hurts, Remus, more than I ever thought it possible to hurt. It's twice over, you see. I'm heartbroken for myself, and for the baby. The baby deserves better from you. Maybe I never did deserve you to love me - or maybe you were right, and you never deserved my love - but the baby deserves all that and so much more._

_I'll never forgive you. I'll never let you back into my home, my life, my heart again. Don't ever come home, Remus, we don't need you, we don't want you. I never want to see you again. I'm through crying over you, I'm through hurting over you._

_Stay away, Remus. _

_- Tonks _

She studied the parchment for a long moment, looking at the words without really reading them. Lies. They were mixed in there with the truth - the pain, the heartbreak, the misery - but no amount of wishing would stop them being lies.

She still loved him, still wanted him home, and would still forgive him. Despite how much he'd hurt her, she'd take him back in a heart beat. For the baby's sake, yes - didn't he or she deserve a father? - but also for her own. Because in the short time they'd been together, he'd become so much to her that she wasn't sure her life could ever feel whole without him in it.

Did that make her weak? Pathetic? She thought so, and hated herself a little bit for it. She wished, oh she wished that those lies could be true, that she could mean all those words about not forgiving him, about not wanting him home, about being done with the tears and the pain.

She blinked - not crying, though, so maybe she could follow through on that one - and picked up the paper. Very slowly, very carefully, she held one corner to the flame of the candle in front of her, holding the other corner in her fingertips. She watched it blacken, curl, and burn away. Then she closed her eyes, too tired to do anything else.

"Never fall in love, kid." She murmured, one hand covering her stomach (and she still couldn't believe a baby, her baby, was in there). "Never."


	131. Promises

**Well ****Lorianna Kim suggested resolving the issues in the last chapter, and while I'm not sure she was serious, it got me writing anyway. And, wow, look at all those reviews. I didn't realise I'd gotten so many, so big, big thanks to you all, you're amazing.**

**131. Promises**

The days had been getting better, as days are bound to after any horrific event. Gradually, the pain lessons, little by little, until it is possible to breathe again. The guilt and fear eases, until living – really _living_ – becomes a tangible possibility.

She'd resolved to live. Not to merely wake in the morning and drag herself through the day, before going to bed at night and praying the nightmares would leave her alone. Sometimes, they did. Other times, she still woke, gasping for air, her mind confused, her heart racing. It had been four months now, but that night, that epic battle that ended the war, and ended lives, seemed like a lifetime ago, and just yesterday. She was still struggling, as were most. Humans are, by nature, resilient, but some things are difficult to move past.

For three years, her life had been about a war. She had fought in battles while still, really, a child. She had felt the kind of fear that no one should ever have to face. And she had lost.

She'd accepted her brother was dead. It had taken a while, it had been unspeakably difficult, but she had done it. She'd started to really breathe, without fearing, every second, that someone, something, was going to come for her, or for someone else she loved. On one hand, she was glad of that; glad to feel real again, glad to feel almost whole. On the other, she was impossibly guilt for not still feeling the pain and horror of it all. Should she really be moving on?

She was outside. It wasn't yet raining, but she sort of hoped it would. How many times had she stood out here, in the rain? Just _feeling_, just breathing. It was an escape, her personal escape, even though she knew that everyone worried about her, that no one understood how therapeutic it was. And shouldn't she, really, try anything, do anything, to get herself through this?

Life wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't meant to be so difficult, so painful, so traumatic, but she was long over any resentment over that. It was what it was, and she couldn't change it; only survive it.

He came outside, quietly, walking slowly. She'd known he would, eventually. He was getting harder to avoid; evidently he'd decided he'd offered her enough space, and now was time to start easing himself back into her life. She wasn't yet sure how she felt about that.

"Ginny." And how familiar that was. The cold – the first drops of rain were about to fall, she could _sense_ it – the voice, and the concern in it. Sometimes he was angry. He'd throw a jacket over at her, tell her off for standing out in the freezing rain. Sometimes he sounded so worried she felt guilty. But this time, there was no anger, and no desperate worry. Just that quiet concern.

He studied her, taking in the way she stood – her arms crossed over her chest, as though to hold herself together. His heart twisted painfully at the sight of her, as it always did; he wasn't sure how many more times he could stand by and watch her struggle. For she was struggling, even he could see that. He just didn't know how to help her.

"Come inside, now, Ginny." He said softly, and she smiled a little at the repetitiveness of it.

"What are we going to do, Harry?" She asked, tired of wondering, of questioning herself. "You were talking about us getting back together. Then you stopped."

"I, ah...Hermione said I shouldn't mention that again for a while. That I should wait for you to be ready, and to come to me."

"Oh. I thought you'd changed your mind. Last week, I shouted at you then cried all over you." Her mouth twisted into a smile that held little humour. "Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it. I haven't changed my mind. You just let me know when you..." He trailed off, uncertain. "Uh, I meant what I said. About not leaving again."

She shrugged, as though it didn't matter. Of course it mattered, even in the middle of all the rest. "You always do." She shrugged. "Something or another comes up, and you...you never choose me." She shook her head, appalled. "Ignore that. I didn't mean you should've stayed with me and let the rest of the world die. I don't know what I meant. I'm just tired."

"You still think I'm going to leave."

"You're Harry Potter. Rich, famous and the saviour of the wizarding world. I'm just a messed up kid who's still having nightmares about a night that happened months ago." Her mouth was still twisted into that humourless half-smile.

"We're all having nightmares." He said quietly. The first rain drop fell.

"I'm not coping as well as I should be. I wasn't, all along. I don't know when I'm going to be – together enough for you. I don't know if I'll ever be enough to make you stay around."

The first hint of anger showed on his face. "I'll be patient, Ginny. I get that you need time. But I won't let you blame me for doing what I had to do. I had to leave. And if this is your way of punishing me for that -"

"It's not about you." She snapped. "Can't you see that? It's about me. I don't know if I want to be with you."

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. She didn't mean them; had no idea why she said them. When she looked at him, he looked both hurt and angry.

He had a sudden flash; Ginny dancing at her brother's wedding, and his jealousy. He'd always, in the back of his mind, believed that once the war was over, he'd go back to her. And she'd welcome him back. Could he let her go? Would he have to, at some point down the line, watch her dance with another man who wasn't him?

"I didn't mean that, either." She murmured. "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to think." Abruptly, she sat down on the damp grass. He hesitated before sinking to sit beside her. "Would you believe that, after all these months, I still sometimes wake up during the night and feel just like I did during the battle? So insecure, so scared and unsafe. And I feel guilty, because I'm thinking about getting my life together, starting a relationship – with you, by the way – when Fred and Tonks and Remus and all those other people -"

"You can't feel guilty for living. They wouldn't want it."

"You're one to talk about guilt." She murmured, smiling at little. He'd missed that smile, and seeing it – even the faint, half-formed version of it – gave him new hope. "I...I'm never going to be who I was, Harry. I'll never be the girl you left behind. I'm different, now, I'm..." She blew out a breath. "Sometimes I think I'm broken. And that sounds stupid and over-dramatic."

"No. It sounds right." The rain fully got underway, then, a light, icy spray. "But you're still you. You're still...I missed you. While I was...away. There were times I couldn't stop thinking about you. So I won't leave you again, Ginny. I _can't_."

She looked at him, for a long moment, through the rain. And slowly, carefully, leaned forward, and kissed him, lightly. "You'll always be the guy I want, won't you?" She sighed. "Even when I don't want to. I don't know when I'll be...I don't know how long you'll have to wait."

Not much longer, he thought. She was already coming back, bit by bit, and though she never would be the same as she'd been – would any of them, really? – she was still Ginny. Beneath the trauma and defences, she was still Ginny.

"I'll wait. As long as it takes." Soaked, now, her looked at her, then nodded, once. "You're safe now, Ginny. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you are. I promise."

* * *

It hurt. God, God it hurt. How could anything hurt this much and not just kill her, not just stop her heart, break her soul?

Or her mind. Frank and Alice Longbottom had never recovered from this curse. Tears rolled down her face as she thought of Neville's parents. This curse, this torture, had broken their minds.

"Please." She choked the word out, every inch of her trembling. "_Please -_"

And again. God, again. It would never stop. Never. It would never stop, until it broke her –

"Hermione!"

She blinked, then screamed again when a fresh wave of pain hit her, the sound mixing with Bellatrix's cold laugh.

"Hermione!"

She struggled to focus on the sound, to understand it. Ron. It was Ron's voice, but she'd never heard it like that before. Screaming, raw and scared and full of anguish. He was hurting, too, she thought dimly, her whole body going limp as Bella lifted her wand. He was hurting. Was someone torturing him, too? Was someone aiming their wand at him, causing him the same pain?

No. No, he'd tried, she remembered, struggling to _think _over the agony. He'd tried to take her place, to take her pain. And she'd...she'd rather feel this, suffer this, than have him do so.

A fresh scream ripped from her throat as Bella aimed the wand again, and a fresh shout came from below, from Ron. Screaming, for her, because she was in pain. Screaming.

She loved him. God, God, she loved him, and even though she'd never felt pain like this, it was OK, as long as it kept him safe. She loved him, despite everything. She closed her eyes, and tried to focus on that, even as her body shook from the torture.

Later, much, much later, when they were curled up on the sofa at Shell Cottage, Hermione wrapped in a blanket and pressed against Ron's side, she thought about that, and decided, after a quick internal debate, to put it to one side. There was too much going on to worry about it, to concentrate on it. It would have to wait until...later. When all of this was over.

"Thank you." She heard herself say the words before she'd decided to speak at all.

"What for?"

"You – when Bellatrix was...I could hear you. Screaming. It kept me focussed. It kept me grounded. It kept me sane, Ron. So thank you. And, after – you got me out." She felt tears in the back of her throat. "You got me out. You got me safe. I'll never forget that, I promise."

She rested her head against his shoulder. "So thank you."

In response, he tightened his arm around her shoulder, and wished that, just once, he could find the right words.

* * *

He'd known she wouldn't make it easy. She'd struggle, and she'd make him suffer. But he hadn't known she'd be so...distant. Almost cold. And he'd never imagined she'd look like this.

Not tired and miserable like she had before, when he'd refused her, rejected her, over and over. No, she looked healthy, her hair her favoured pink, her skin almost glowing, her eyes holding some strange new light, even when they narrowed at him in annoyance.

She looked happy. She was _fine_ without him. And Remus had never expected that. Arrogant, he thought now, to assume she'd be broken and miserable without him.

"You look great." He told her, as she settled into a chair, holding a cup in both hands. She pulled her feet up onto the chair, crossing her legs like a child, and watching him. Relaxed. Young. Vibrant.

"Thanks." She replied politely. _Politely. _As though they were casual acquaintances, as though there was _nothing_ between them. "Being pregnant agrees with me. I figured I feel awful for nine months but I've never felt better." Despite the words, and the evident joy behind them, her expression neutral. She looked at him for a long moment, then tilted her head. "You expected me to be a wreck. Like before."

"No, I..." He trailed off, almost flushed at the obviousness of his lie. She knew him too well.

"I feel like a different person, to who I was then. Older. More mature. Being with you, Remus, being in love with you, it was like nothing I'd ever experienced. I never knew I could feel so much. Even when it made me miserable – when you made me miserable – there was something amazing about the depth of it all. But this is different." She curled one arm around her stomach – and was it just his imagination, or was there already a bump there, a swelling to make room for the child?

His child.

Wow.

"This is more than that. Nothing could ever compare to this. Before, when I told you I loved you, and you sent me away, it made me less than what I was. For months, I was this mess, the pitiful, miserable wreck. I'm stronger this time. I have to be. I thought then that I couldn't be without you. But I can. This whole thing made me realised I can. Me and the kid, we'll do great."

"Without me." He said, and his voice sounded as hollow as he felt.

"You made your choice." She said, and refused to let him see how much that had hurt, still hurt, and how much effort it was taking to act casual while he was sat opposite her. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hit him, kiss him, or break down in tears. "You walked away, and I adjusted. I made plans. Before you left, when we were...married and pregnant and together..." Her eyes flickered down, and following her gaze he noticed for the first time that she wasn't wearing her wedding ring. Suddenly his own ring seemed cold against his finger. "I had plans. Then you left, and I had to change them. Fix them."

"I want to come home." He hadn't meant to say it like that, sounding childish and faintly ridiculous. "I want to come home and be with you again. Be married and pregnant again. I want to be a dad." The truth of the words made him stop, and close his mouth. He wanted that child, that tiny baby that was curled up in her swollen abdomen. He wanted their baby. "I was stupid. I was scared and stupid, but I -"

She stood, slowly, carefully, and set the cup down. When he stood, too, almost eagerly, and stepped towards her, something flashed across her face – anger? Pain? – before she reached out and slapped him, hard, across the face. "You can't do this. You can't keep coming in and out of my life. You want me, then you don't. You love me, and then you can't be with me. I tolerated it, I tolerated so damn much from you. Those times when you were cold and distant, those times when you'd tell me – actually say to my face – that we'd made a mistake. And the times when you'd tell me you loved me, tell me that you couldn't live without me. I tolerated it because I love you. Even when it cut me, right to the core, I tolerated it. I forgave it. But I won't put the kid through it. I _won't_. They baby doesn't deserve to watch his father walk in and out of his life, to spend half the time hearing how much he's loved, and the other half wondering what he did to make you leave. I won't let you hurt the baby like you hurt me. He deserves better."

"He?"

"Or she." She said, with an impatient wave. "It could be a girl. I don't know. It's just easier to say he, and that's not the point! The point is, you're not going to walk back into our lives, and then walk out again when you change your mind. I won't have it."

"I won't. I promise."

"You promised lots of things." She lifted a hand, tapped a finger against the bare skin where her wedding ring had been. "You broke them."

He was losing her. Oh, God, he was losing her. He could all but feel her slipping away. And the baby. The baby, too.

"Just go, Remus. You were bound to leave again anyway. Let's just skip the part where I let you back in, and believe in you. It hurts too damn much." She sounded, looked, tired. And then, when he dropped to his knees, she looked surprised.

"I promise you. I'll be here, this time. I won't leave again. I don't think I can. It hurts me, too, Dora. I'm sorry." He pressed his face to her stomach. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't." Suddenly, she sounded close to tears. "Don't do this to me again. I can't stand it anymore, Remus."

"One last chance." He whispered. "One last chance."

She lowered herself to sit in front of him, on the floor, and realised how broken he looked. What else could she do? She still loved him; she'd never stop. Though a part of her felt weak, pathetic, she'd pretty much known what she was going to do when he'd first turned up on the doorstep.

"It _has_ to be the last chance." She murmured. "I'm not strong enough to go through it all again. If you leave me again, I'll never let you back." And she meant it. She was determined to. "This has to be it, Remus. This has to be the last time I take you back."

"It will be. I promise. I promise."

Promises break, she thought, closing her eyes. Carelessly, easily, promises are broken all the time.

"One last chance." She whispered, her eyes closed, wishing with all her heart that she was making the right choice.


	132. Truth and Right

**I have news, lovely readers. I've just gotten into university. Hell yeah. Doesn't solve my current problem of a sucky job that pays far too little, but wow, uni. **

**Thanks, as always, for the reviews.**

**132. Truth and Right**

The ministry were correct; his parents were wrong. That was simply how it was; how it _had_ to be. And all the things his father yelled at him were untrue; unfair and _untrue_.

And all the things – the horrible, hurtful, _disgusting_ things – that he'd thrown at his father?

True. They were all true. Sort of. Mostly.

But unfair. He'd known, even as he'd spoken all those vile, poisonous words, that they were unfair, and far, far too hurtful to be used in such an argument; far too hurtful to ever be used by a son towards his father.

He'd made his mother cry. She hadn't participated in the argument, really – a few early, futile attempts to calm them both – but he'd known that every word he'd tossed at his father had cut at her, too. So she'd been crying, while he and his father had been yelling. And then, she'd been crying while he and his father looked at each other, his father's face marked with dull shock and hurt, and Percy's breath hitching at he tried to calm himself, and to ignore the guilt that was already springing up.

He'd screamed that he was leaving. That's what had led to that long, tense moment while they stared at each other and Molly cried. He'd screamed that he was leaving, and not to consider him family anymore. It was only then, after the words had left his mouth, after they'd echoed around the room, that he'd realised he meant them.

He'd been ashamed. His mother's tears and his father's shocked hurt had shamed him, but that was nothing compared to leaving the room and finding Ginny, Ron and the twins on the stairs, staring at him, evidently having heard every word.

Every filthy, hateful word.

He moved past them, and to his room. His eyes burned with tears as he hurriedly packed his things, shoving everything he could touch into a bag, his hands trembling.

He was going to do it. Oh, wow, he was really going to walk out, out of his home, out of his family.

What if they were right? What it the ministry were wrong and his parents were right and Dumbledore and Harry Potter were sane and Voldemort was actually out there –

No. No, of course not. It made no sense, it was impossible, and his parents would realise it soon enough.

And he? Well, he had to side with the truth, didn't he? With the _correct_ side. That was, surely, the right thing to do.

Wasn't it?

He wanted to say something to the twins and Ron and Ginny. He moved past them again on the stairs, opened the door, and still, could think of nothing to say to them. He turned back to face them, hoping for something, anything to say.

Maybe he ought to have apologised. Maybe he ought to have made some sort of heartfelt declaration of love. Maybe he ought to have got down on his knees, begged for forgiveness, and hope they forgot all those _things_ that had spewed out of his mouth.

Instead, he murmured, "Bye," and turned away.

The cold air hit him as he stepped out, into the dark.

And he walked, leaving his home, his family, behind, every inch of him shaking.

* * *

"Please, Percy." His mother said, her eyes swimming. "Just come home."

The shame. She didn't look angry, even after everything he'd said. But how could he ever go back? How could he ever look his father in the eye again?

"Have you come to your senses, finally?" He said, coldly. He didn't want to say it, or to speak in the tone. He wanted to bawl like a toddler, scream that he was sorry, and beg for forgiveness. His wanted his mother, his father, his family, his home. But he didn't.

"I...Percy, you don't know what you're talking about. This is -"

"I'll take that as a no." Percy replied, in the cold voice, and then, slowly, hardly able to believe he was doing it, he stepped back and closed the door.

Closed the door, right in his mother's face.

For a long time afterwards, he sat on the floor, leaning back against the door, staring into space.

* * *

He cried when he got the jumper. Just a little, hot, stinging tears. She'd still made him a jumper. Even after everything - God, he'd closed the door in her face – she'd made him a jumper, sent it off, even though he hadn't spoken to her in months.

He sent it back. He was so ashamed he couldn't even look at it without that shame trying to choke him, and so mad still. They were persisting with Dumbledore's ridiculous story, siding with Harry Potter and Dumbledore over the ministry, over sanity.

He'd seen his father at work a few days before. Arthur hadn't even looked at him, but the tips of his ears had gone red, and his expression had been hard.

So, mad, ashamed, and incredibly lonely (who'd've thought he'd miss them all so much?) he sent the jumper back, then spent two days sulking about it.

* * *

He went to the hospital. Of course he did, as soon as he heard, rushing to St Mungo's with his heart in his throat.

Arthur was sleeping when Percy reached his room, his wounds dressed and looking remarkably healthy, compared to the image Percy had created on the journey over. Yes, he was paler than normal, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. And, of course, his was clearly wounded, even if the wounds were hidden away.

Percy looked at his father for a long moment, and wished for words - the right words to fix this whole thing – as he watched him sleep.

He stood there for a long moment, then turned away, walked away. It was for the best, really, if no one knew he'd ever been there.

* * *

They were right; the ministry was wrong.

How would he ever live it down? How could he ever go crawling back home, admit he was wrong, stupid, and ask for forgiveness? They were supposed to do that. Not him.

He nearly did it, though, countless times. And never quite had the nerve. And when the new minister pushed and pushed Percy to take him to the Burrow – to Harry – he eventually gave in, not only because this was the new minister, but because he wanted to see them, see home.

It was a disaster, of course, and afterwards, he looked around his empty flat – no Christmas decorations, because he had no family to share Christmas with – he thought, rather miserably, that it was over. He'd cut all ties the day he'd left, and there was nothing he could do about it now.

His own fault, of course. But there was no going back. He'd just have to accept that he no longer had a family.

* * *

The day of his brother's wedding, Percy sat at home, looking at the invitation.


	133. Love

**Short, but hopefully somewhat sweet. It just started writing itself in my head last night when I was trying to sleep (why do ideas always come when you're trying to sleep?) and I think that version might be better than this one, but I couldn't really remember it. So, we work with what we have.**

**Thanks, as always, for reviews.**

**133. Love**

They let themselves into George's flat, and neither Hermione nor Ginny was surprised at the sight. George was stretched out on a sofa, fast asleep, Ron – who greeted them with a bright "hi!" - was sat on the floor leaning against the wall, clutching what might be the last bottle of drink in the place, and Harry was curled up in a armchair, looking half asleep himself. He raised a hand in greeting, but apparently couldn't muster the energy to speak.

"They can't keep up with us." Ginny observed. "It's barely one in the morning and their all nearly asleep."

"Uh-huh." Hermione replied. Despite the girls-night-out, the two of them were far more sober than the boys, it appeared. "You still going to crash here?"

"Yeah." Ginny shrugged a shoulder. "I don't want George to wake up alone." It was subtle, casual reminder that none of them were yet over what they'd experienced recently, and that despite their attempts at a normal teenage socail life, they were far from normal teenagers.

Hermione nodded. "And Harry'll stay here too, I guess." She added, after watching him lean his head back and close his eyes.

"Looks like." Ginny nodded towards Ron, who was watching them with a slight smile. "Last man standing. Who've thought?" With a grin for Ginny, Hermione crossed the room and sat beside Ron.

"Hi." She said. Ron looked at her for a long moment, blinked, then smiled.

"Hi." He leaned back against the sofa and added, "You're pretty."

She raised her eyebrows. "You're drunk."

"Yeah." He waved the hand clinging to a bottle, sending some of the light brown liquid flying out. "George made his own..." He blinked at the bottle, then sent her a foolish, drunken smile. "Tired now."

"Uh-huh." She thought that she ought to be disapproving, or irritated, but she couldn't quite manage it. He looked adorable, she decided, all bleary eyes and foolish smiles. "C'mon, then, let's get you home."

"Can you manage him?" Ginny asked, looking doubtful.

"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Sure. Night."

"Night." Hermione murmured, then struggled to apparate with Ron. He was very little help, and she wasn't used to apparating with a person leaning against her, but she managed it, even if she did stagger a bit on landing.

"C'mon, then. Nearly home." She said, her arm around his waist. He supported himself well enough, she mused as she led him down the lane to the Burrow, even if he didn't seem too steady.

"Thank you." He said, his voice oddly childish. He sighed, then leaned his head against hers. "I love you."

Everything inside her froze, but she recovered quickly, moving forward and swallowing. "Uh-huh." She managed, at a loss for words.

"Meant to say it before, but I didn't know how. Crazy about you."

"God." Hermione murmured. She'd pictured this moment (hoped for it) but it had never been like this; a drunken Ron with slightly slurred words, a dark night with the first hints of rain in the air, and she herself feeling half-asleep.

He turned his head, gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. "I'm gonna marry you one day."

"Oh." She said, still struggling for words. They reached the Burrow – she fumbled with the door for a full minute before finally getting it open – and she paused in the hall long enough to draw her wand and cast the _muffliato_ charm to avoid waking anyone. Then she began the delicate task of dragging Ron upstairs.

"Am serious." He said, his tone implying she called him a liar. "I love you."

"I, um..."

"Sometimes," he added quietly, "I think I always have. Right since the beginning. Scares me."

"Scares me, too." Hermione managed finally. They reached his room, and she struggled to manoeuvre him onto his bed. She surveyed him for a moment, wondering how safe it was to leave him alone to sleep. Clearly unconcerned, he rolled onto his side, curled up, and closed his eyes.

"Night." She said, amused by him. He looked so young, so innocent. His eyes flickered open again.

"Night." He replied sleepily. "Love ya."

"Love you too." She said, with a shaky breath. He smiled at her again, then closed his eyes and fell obviously into sleep. She turned away and headed to Ginny's room, biting her lip and sort of hoping neither of them would remember this exchange in the morning.


	134. Funerals and Guilt

**Wrote this like a week ago and I'm not sure how I intended to end it...am basically posting it because I don't have anything else for you guys. And because otherwise it'll just stay on my memory stick forever. Sorry it's been a while, but I have been writing, just not fanfiction. Started a new (non-fanfic) story, and any writing time I can get is going on that. Jigsaw Pieces might get neglected for a little while longer, just until the ideas slow down. Sorry. And, as always, thank you so much for reviews.**

**134. Funerals and Guilt**

This one wasn't as hard. It couldn't be. Nothing could ever be quite as difficult as getting through Fred's funeral had been. No, Ginny was pretty certain today couldn't be as hard.

She dressed slowly, giving every appearance of dressing carefully, but had no idea what she was wearing. She brushed her hair, slowly, thoroughly, but didn't glance at the mirror. Make-up didn't occur to her.

Such trivial details hadn't entered her mind at all since that night.

Tonks' funeral, she thought, and finally just gave in, closing her eyes and flopping back onto her bed. There were no tears, no sobs. Just that hot, heavy pain in the heart.

When she heard the baby crying, that heart all but broke. But she sat up, and left her room – she didn't want to leave her room, she was safe there, separate from all the grief – and headed down the stairs, to greet the orphaned Teddy as brightly as she could manage.

--------------

She'd paid attention to every second of Fred's funeral. Though she'd hoped it would blur by quickly, fade away from her memories, every detail of the day was clear. Knowing that Tonks' funeral would be the same – and Remus, when they held it tomorrow – only made it seem worse. She didn't want to be here. Had to be, of course, couldn't possibly skip it, but she just wanted the day to be over.

Andromeda was staring ahead, her eyes unfocussed, Teddy cradled in her arms. One had was clutching a corner of his blanket so hard that her knuckles were white.

Tonks had bought that blanket, Ginny remembered. It was red – a bold, vibrant shade, but one she insisted was gender-neutral – and soft and big enough that it could last him a good few years before he was too big for it. It had been the first thing she bought for the baby, and she showed Ginny it so proudly.

It had seemed strange, then, to picture Tonks as a mother. And then, after the baby was born, it seemed to so _right_.

It would never be right again, now.

Even as she looked at him, Teddy shifted in his grandmother's arms, and made a sort of gurgling sound, before screwing up his face and wailing. It was almost a hushed sound, but it was most definitely a warning; louder cries were to come. She'd heard Teddy test the full capacity of his lungs, knew the painful volume he could reach, and it took Ginny only a moment to realise how much louder those cries would be in the church.

"I'll take him outside." She whispered, leaning towards Andromeda, who didn't respond, instead looking down at the infant as though somewhat surprised to see him there. "Andromeda? I'll take him outside until he's settled. OK?"

Andromeda nodded, and Ginny awkwardly lifted Teddy, checking her grip was secure before she dare move. She slipped out of the church as quickly and quietly as possible, knowing several pairs of eyes followed her.

She stepped out into the bright sunshine, realising for the first time how smothering the atmosphere had been inside the church. She turned back to look at the large, old building, wondering if Tonks had actually been religious at all. They'd never discussed such things.

She'd never know now, Ginny thought, and her throat snapped shut. Teddy wailed again, then made a fussy, pitiful sound, and curled against her.

"Poor baby." She murmured. "No place for you, is it, a funeral?" She started to walk, hoping to settle him. "Especially not hers. She so wanted to live, Teddy, for you. I'm going to remind you of that, when you're older. You'll need to know that, won't you? Just how much she loved you, just how much she wanted to be alive for you. She never wanted to leave you."

But she did, Ginny thought, and struggled, as she had been struggling since that night, to accept that the fault didn't lay with the dead. They hadn't chosen to die, to leave her. It was just so difficult not to blame them for it, so difficult to let the anger go.

Because the anger and grief and all the rest of those tangled, indefinable emotions seemed to be gathering in her throat and cutting off her oxygen, she swallowed hard, and forced a smile for the baby, who was finally calming down. He'd grabbed and handful of her robes and clung tightly to it, his warm little body close to hers, his big eyes watching her. He wasn't crying anymore; a quiet sniffling sound was slipping out every few seconds instead.

"How much of this do you understand, Teddy?" She whispered. "How much of this do you feel?" She lowered her head so her nose brushed his soft hair, and closed her eyes. "None of it, I hope. Not the best way to start a life, kid. I'm sorry."

He watched her, standing several feet away, leaning against a tree. He couldn't have explained what had compelled him to come to the funeral – or, rather, to come to the venue and stand around outside – but he'd done so a few times, with various funerals. Never inside, though. He had no right for that, did he? No, Draco wouldn't upset those grieving people with his presence. But he'd torture himself by haunting the funerals, watching the grief, and knowing that he'd played some part, however small, in those deaths.

Weasley wasn't looking her best, he could see even from here. There were still dark circles under her eyes, just like they had been the last time he'd seen her at Hogwarts – they'd had a shouting match in the middle of the corridor – still those signs of exhaustion marked on her face. And youth. Still just a kid, really, he thought. And he knew damn well she'd been in the middle of the battle. Not that he cared or anything, but it made him feel slightly sick to think of her, young and small and tired fighting fully grown, skilled wizards who'd kill her without thought. And forget her face as soon as they stepped over her dead body.

He remembered faces. Everyone he'd seen die, every empty face he'd seen later that night, they haunted him. He didn't think he'd ever forget them.

But, however much of a conscience he seemed to have, he'd been part of that group, Draco thought, part of a group that would kill defenceless young girls for nothing more than the fun of it.

Disgusted with himself, he watched her with the baby for only a moment longer, before turning and walking away.

He hadn't known Nymphadora Tonks. But hers was another face he would never forget.

-----------------

Three years later, he stood in the entrance hall at Hogwarts, looking at the memorial plaque. Inside, the annual ceremony was going on – speeches, candles, remembrance – and most of that crowd inside had a loved one whose name graced the plaque. No one he'd cared for was on there, but he knew every name. Carried every name around with him. And would, forever, no matter how often he tried to tell himself he hadn't killed them, how many times Astoria (and thank whatever fate had blessed him with her, despite how undeserving he was) told him he wasn't to blame. She liked to paint him as an innocent child led down the wrong path, and refused to let him correct her. He'd given up trying now, partly because it seemed pointless in the face of her stubbornness, and partly because it was nice to have someone so obviously see the best in him.

He should go in. Maybe. But he didn't quite have the guts to walk into the hall, to face those people, their judgement and hate. So he lingered in the hallway, looking at that bright plaque with the names – so many names – displayed.

Even as he toyed with leaving – he was never going to get the guts up to go inside – the door opened.

She stepped out, struggling a little with the heavy door and the toddler she had balanced on one hip. He was crying, the toddler, his face screwed up, sounding annoyed more than anything else. As for Ginny, she looked slightly amused.

"OK, Ted, I get it, you don't wanna be in there. Shh, now." She closed the door behind her, turned, and saw him. Her half-smile faded, her eyes went blank, and she stared at him. He opened his mouth to speak, and could think of no words.

Even as she stared at him, the little boy wailed louder, causing her to absently lift her hand to the back of his head.

"I...Sorry..." He managed finally, blushing. Actually blushing, he thought, appalled.

"Did you come to the ceremony?" She asked, sounding incredulous.

"Um, I, no. I guess. I don't know, really."

In his embarrassment and awkwardness, he would normally have been cold, dismissive, cruel even. But he couldn't, not when she was stood there holding a toddler he knew damn well was the orphan she'd had at the funeral. Not when she still looked young and small – but more whole, certainly more healthy, than the last time he'd seen her.

"I shouldn't be here." He said finally. She stared at him, still obviously not over the surprise of seeing him there. "I'll go. Sorry."

He turned, and fled, knowing she watched him leave. And knowing she judged him for it.


	135. Fairytales

**Hi. Reviews have slowed down a bit lately (is the fic getting worse or are you guys just losing interest?) so big extra thanks for those continuing to review. I really appreciate it.**

**135. Fairytales**

She was a princess, and he was her prince. He would rescue her from all of this – he would slay the dragon, and carry her away. She would never have to return to this house, never have to put up with her mother's criticisms and her father's casual neglect and Bella's darkness. She'd never have to do anything she didn't want to do.

She'd be free.

Narcissa wanted freedom so much she could almost taste it.

"Cissy, what _are_ you doing?" Bellatrix said, her voice shaking Narcissa from her thoughts and making her flush red in embarrassment.

"Nothing." She tried to push the book under the cushion next to her, but Bellatrix had already seen it.

"Aren't you a little old for fairytales?" Bella asked, snatching the old book from her with cruel delight. "You're no longer a baby, little sister."

"I wasn't reading it." Narcissa replied, glaring. "I was just...remembering." It took her only seconds to come up with an easy lie; she'd always been a skilled liar. "I used to read these fairy tales all the time. I loved them, remember? When I was really little, Andromeda used to read them to me -"

She realised her mistake and silenced abruptly, almost afraid of the intensity of Bella's glare. "Andromeda isn't here anymore, Cissy." Bellatrix said, her voice slow and careful. "She's not part of this family, she's not your sister. Don't speak of her, Cissy."

Narcissa falterned, nodded, and said nothing as Bellatrix tossed the old, well-read book onto the sofa beside Narcissa, and stalked from the room, adding, "And fairytales aren't real," without turning around.

She was still their sister, Narcissa thought guiltily. Nothing, not even a betrayal like hers, could possibly change that, could it? It couldn't change the blood, it couldn't kill the memories. They'd grown up together, shared a thousand moments. And, yes, Andromeda may have gone against everything, broken every rule, but...

She'd done it for love, Narcissa thought. Andromeda had fallen in love, and her mudblood had rescued her. He'd taken her away from this house, and all the things she'd longed to escape (all the things Narcissa longed to escape) and created a life for them. He loved her, that mudblood, he loved Andromeda with everything he had.

Andromeda had gotten her fairytale, Narcissa thought.

* * *

Lucius was perfect. He was her prince, and he would save her. He would give her the freedom she craved, he would love her. He would give her the fairytale she'd always wanted.

"Marry me." He whispered to her, gazing into her eyes. She looked down at the ring her held out – the diamond was huge, glinting like ice. It was cold, some part of her thought. She'd thought it would hold warmth, that key to her happy ending.

She shook that thought aside, offered a smile, and murmured, "Yes."

She would have everything, the perfect happy ending. The beautiful wedding, the perfect palace, the wonderful life. He would be the king, and she would be the queen. And they'd live happily ever after.

* * *

Several years later, Narcissa looked at herself in the mirror. She was no longer that inexperienced teenager. If Lucius was the king, and she the queen, then what kind of kingdom did they rule? If this house was her palace, then why did it feel so much like a prison?

Nothing was how it was supposed to be. Draco, her little prince, was going down the wrong path; Lucius, her saviour, was so much weaker than she'd ever known – so much so that she was having to be the strong one, hold him together – her perfect life was fast turning into a nightmare.

She stared at the mirror, seeing the tiredness in her eyes, the lines on her face, the strain around her mouth. She turned away, determined to fix it. She would not go downstairs, face all those _people, _face what was left of her family, with lines and strain and tiredness. She would fix her appearance, if nothing else. It would be a lie, of course, she thought as she went to work with the potions and clever magic tricks. It would be a complex facade, an illusion of youth and brightness and ease.

But it would be a convincing one. She was, after all, a skilled liar. She crouched down, pulling open her bottom drawers and pushing aside the scarves and blankets to uncover her secrets.

And there was the book. That old copy of her favourite fairytales, sat there with the other things she'd felt the need to hide.

The book was full of lies, she thought. Princes and princesses, perfect romances and happy endings.

There was no such thing as a happy ending, she thought, tugging the book out of the drawer. There was no such thing as a fairytale.

She stared down at the old, battered book, then stood abruptly, walking towards the little fireplace. A flick of her wand and flames burst into existence; a flick of her wrist and that old book was amongst them, blackening and crumbling.

She watched it burn, until it was nothing.

"Fairytales aren't real."


	136. Family II

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Especially those assuring me that the stories not getting worse, people just don't have anything new to say. And that's completely understandable after 136 chapters and 1764 reviews. Can't complain about a lack of reviews with those figures. Just as long as people are still enjoying it. Let me know if things change.**

**136. Family**

James was there. Of course he was. From a young age – too young, she'd sometimes thought – her eldest son had assumed responsibility for those he'd loved. Some may have found it absurd to find a young boy so protective of his mother, but that had been James. Protective, reliable, perceptive. He'd held her hand, more than once, through Hogwarts' memorial ceremonies, knowing it was hard for her to be back there. When he'd learned of her experience in the Chamber of Secrets, he'd promised to always protect her, with such innocence. She'd always known, in a way few mothers ever could, that he would always be by her side when she needed him.

She needed him now. God, God she needed him.

He crouched in front of her, covered both her hands with his. "Mum." She nearly broke then, simply because she could have. She could have fallen to pieces, and he'd have caught her. Her little boy, all grown up. She tried to force a smile, to reassure him, but her facial muscles wouldn't cooperate.

"Where's Ally?" She said instead, determined to focus on something other than her husband. "The children..."

"She's on her way. Getting the kids ready." He didn't bother to explain that he couldn't have waited those few minutes it would take to organise the kids. "Ah, Al's gone to get Lily and Scorpius. They were at that party, at Scorpius' grandparents. Um, Teddy, you know he and Vee were in France with the kids. Grandma's trying to get in touch, let him know what's going on." Except they didn't really know what was going on, did they?

"OK. Ron and Hermione...they're coming, too." She couldn't help herself glancing towards the doors, knowing Harry was just a few doors away.

"He'll be fine, Mum." James said softly. Despite the words, the certain tone, the plea was in his eyes. _Tell me he'll be alright, and I'll believe you. Please tell me he'll be alright._

She couldn't, because the words might be a lie, and she and Harry had promised, so many years ago, never to lie to their kids. But he had to be alright. He'd survived too much to be beaten like this, now. There was too much left to do. He had to be by her side to watch the grandchildren grow up, to meet the new baby Albus' wife Lizzie was expecting. He had to...

She swallowed, cut her thoughts off, and refused to allow her mind to conjure up all those images that it could easily torment her with. She'd known death all too well once.

Instead, she looked at her boy. Harry's hair, she thought, her eyes. He was a pretty good mixture of the two of them, really. Maybe he leaned a little more towards Harry's features, but she knew he often had her own expressions and mannerisms. It was sometimes a little terrifying to see how much of herself she'd passed on to him, how similar they were. And yet, thrilling. She'd grown used to that thrill, all but forgotten it, but it still struck her at odd moments.

"Do you want Grandma and Grandad to be here? And, everyone?" He asked. They both knew that, with one word, this little waiting room would be crowded with Weasleys.

"No." She needed her children, but having the rest of the family here would suffocate her. "Ron and Hermione will be here, and that's enough. I can't..." He nodded, understanding. Before he could say anything else, he heard the click of heels against the floor and turned to see Ally walk in, the kids behind her. She set Gina, their youngest, on a chair, and walked straight to him, her face tight, her eyes worried. She placed her hand on his shoulder as she crouched beside him, spoke to his mother. He couldn't focus enough to hear what she said; instead, he squeezed her hand, then stood, and turned to face the doors, hearing the approach of more people.

Albus walked in and met James' gaze with an expression he was sure mirrored his own. The worry and the denial, the determination and the careful control. Beside him, pretty Lizzie bit her lip and looked around. He stepped forward, closing the distance with only two steps. He gripped Albus' shoulder for the briefest second, but didn't speak to him. Instead, he tried to smile at his sister-in-law. "You should sit. And try not to worry." As if any of them could _not_ worry. "It's not good for the baby." He indicated her slightly swollen stomach, and she forced a smile.

Her daughter, Abigail the bright eyed toddler, clung to her mother's hand and looked around in fascination. Had she ever been in a hospital before? James didn't know, and wondered if he should. True, the girl had only recently become his niece, but surely an uncle should know such things? He knew Albus' daughter had been in a hospital before. Claudia had been in a similar waiting room, with the rest of them, when Lily had given birth to her youngest.

"I worried a lot while I was pregnant with Abigail. She turned out alright." Lizzie murmured. James looked down at his two year old niece – step-niece, technically – and nodded in agreement. "True. Sit down anyway, Lizzie, love."

"Just for you, then." Lizzie said. She tightened her grip of Abigail's hand, and grabbed Claudia's with the other, pulling them towards the chairs. She paused to say something to Ginny, then settled the girls side-by-side.

"Mason knows something's up. Something bad." Albus told him quietly. When James muttered an oath and pushed a hand through his hair, Albus shook his head. "He didn't say anything. But he's got that look." James turned, finally looked at his kids. He'd been afraid of what he would see on their faces; and sure enough, Mason was looking at him with too much understand for a seven year old. Even as James watched, Mason tugged Gina's hand, helping her down from the chair she was in and leading her over to Lizzie and the girls. He helped her into a seat and sat beside her, joining in the conversation Lizzie was desperately trying to keep going to distract them. James knew – with some pride – that he'd done so to make sure Gina stayed put. She adored her big brother, and would follow him anywhere. For a seven-year-old, Mason tolerated it extremely well.

He scanned the room, finding his other boys – five year old Jasper and four year old Max – stood silently watching, much as he was himself. They know, he thought, and something inside him twisted. Though he'd hoped they were too young to understand, they'd never be standing so still, so quiet, if they didn't know. They'd be in the middle of something, causing trouble. Knowing that, for once, he could trust them to behave – and thinking bitterly than no child so young should understand so clearly the need to behave here – he turned away from them, and finally looked at his sister. He hadn't wanted to, knowing exactly what he'd see. She was clinging to Scorpius' arm, her eyes huge and scared, her face too pale. She seemed to see no one, to be aware of anything around her. But James knew her well enough to know she was aware of everything, from his own gaze to the exact positions of each of her children. He hesitated before crossing to her, acknowledging Scorpius without a word.

Lily looked at him, and he thought briefly that she looked about twelve, despite the careful make-up, despite the fact that she was a married mother of three.

"Lily..." He wanted to hug her, but he thought it might break them both if he did.

"It's OK." She said, her voice just a little shaky. "It's Dad. He'll be fine." But her eyes held the same plea his had just a few minutes ago.

He skimmed a knuckle down her cheek, then turned to his brother-in-law, unable to give Lily the reassurance she needed. "Here, give me the baby." He said to his brother-in-law, indicating the ten-month-old balanced on Scorpius' hip. "Looks like Lizzie's decided to handle the kids. Ah, she could probably keep an eye on Raine and Colby, too. Maybe you should sit, too, Lily -"

"James." She gripped his hand. "Don't. Don't try to look after everyone." Pointless to say it, she knew, to expect him not to. It was James. He'd look after them all, and they'd let him. He only shrugged, and lifted his youngest nephew. Lily watched as he settled the boy beside Gina, and would have busied himself with the others, too, if Lizzie hadn't laid a hand over his, and looked at him with such sympathy. "I'll see to the kids, James. It's OK." He might have protested, if a healer hadn't knocked on the open door.

They'd taken over the waiting room, Lily thought, and wondered what the staff thought about that. They'd filled it with children, too, and she wasn't sure if that was even allowed. Maybe it would be better if the kids weren't here, if they were safe and occupied and unaware of everything. But she didn't think she could bear to have them out of her sight at the minute. When her eldest son moved to her side, she rested a hand on his head and waited, aware that James had frozen, waiting, aware that most of the children were still talking, even though the adults around them had silenced, aware that her newest sister-in-law had swiftly settled her daughter with the others. And aware that the healer was the only one in the room that knew if her father was even still alive.

He seemed to take forever to explain, and Lily thought with annoyance that he used too many words. A few short sentences would have done it – numerous curses, a few serious jinxes, and a worrying head injury, caused in the fall down a flight of staircases after his body had given up and he'd lost consciousness.

"He'll be alright, though." Lily said, one hand vice-tight on Scorpius', the other still resting gently on Colby's head.

"We're giving him the best care, of course." The healer said, offering her an indulgent smile. It angered her, that patronising smile – as though she was a child, easily placated. She was an adult, a wife and a mother. "He's a legend, a hero. Harry Potter..."

"He's our father." Lily replied, her voice pure ice. When the healer flushed, and mumbled an apology, she turned away, dismissing him. "Get Lucy in here." She said, to the room in general. "She's a healer, isn't she, the best damn healer in the place. Where the hell is she?"

"Calm it, Titch." The voice – the strain in it barely hidden beneath the easy tone – made her realise she'd been shouting. She didn't get a chance to be humiliated by that, though, not when the room flooded with more people. Hugo was the one who'd spoken, using her childhood nickname. His fiancé, Meredith, was beside him, and Rose and Lorcan were behind them.

"Lucy's here, and she's in Uncle Harry's room right now, trying to find out what she can." Rose told the room in general, moving to Lily. "They're not too happy about it – there's rules and stuff – but you know Lucy. Everyone else is at the Burrow." She wrapped her arms around Lily, hugging her gently. For a moment, just a moment, Lily lowered her face to her cousin's shoulder and closed her eyes. When they broke apart, Lorcan rubbed her arm once, then crouched down to look at Colby, murmuring something to him.

"Where's Liberty and Camden?" Scorpius asked, and Lily blinked, glanced around, and realised for the first time that Rose and Lorcan's three year old twins weren't there.

"With Lydia and Zander. Lydie said to tell everyone that she can pick up the kids if necessary."

"Well?" Behind him, Hermione and Ron stood, hands linked, expressions worried. "What do we know?"

James explained, summarising the doctors words in a flat, empty tone, while Albus watched. He watched Lorcan move to Lizzie, offer help with the children, then move to sit beside Ginny. He watched Hugo lead his pregnant fiancé to the chairs, and help her sit – twice as pregnant as Albus' own wife, Meredith was all but ready to pop – and say something brightly to the kids, which may have fooled some of them into thinking everything was OK. He watched Lily lean on Scorpius, while he tightened his arm around her waist.

He'd keep her steady, Albus decided.

Thank God for them. Ally and Lorcan providing Ginny with the support that Albus couldn't quite manage, Rose stood beside James, her hand on his arm while he spoke to her parents, Scorpius holding Lily up, steadying her the way no one else could, Hugo and Meredith helping Lizzie with the children. And Lizzie – how many women would have so quickly taken charge of all the children, simply so their parents wouldn't have to think about it? He crossed to her – Lorcan had Ginny covered, and Albus didn't quite know how to help her through this – and she turned to him before he'd reached even the halfway point. When he finally reached her, she simply wrapped her arms around him.

"It's OK. He'll be OK." She whispered. He didn't bother telling her how scared he was, how tight his chest felt, how his mind was torturing him with a million what-ifs. She'd know. He'd come to realise no one understood him quite like his Lizzie did. "Is anyone else coming?" She added, as he finally drew back from her.

"I doubt it. They'll all be at the Burrow, waiting for news. Maybe if Teddy can get back into the country...I don't know if anyone's even reached him yet. God, Lizzie. Through the war, when he was just a kid, and all these years of being an auror, he's never been this bad. It's not the first time he's landed himself in here, but never...What was he even doing there? He's supposed to manage the department now, just oversee everything, not go running into dangerous situations and getting battered by curses."

"I know." Lizzie said quietly.

Because anger – at his father, for putting himself in danger, and for the people who'd created that danger – was starting to well up inside him, Albus didn't speak, and tried to swallow it, ignore it. He looked over the kids, wishing he could find the strength to force a smile and distract them, entertain them. Mason, his eldest nephew, looked up and met Albus' gaze with far too much understanding in his eyes. His daughter and step-daughter seemed distracted enough, he mused. Maybe he ought to call Claudia's mother, get her picked up. But, damn it, he didn't think he could watch her leave, not at the minute. "I told Kim." Lizzie said, as though she'd read his thoughts. "While you were getting Lily. She, ah, asked if someone could let her know, when we know anything, and to tell you that she'll come for Claudia if you need her to. Or, if you need her with you, that's fine." Lucky, Lizzie supposed, that she was able to get along so well with Albus' ex-fiancée, the mother of his daughter.

"Right. Yeah. I'll go contact her, I guess, let her know what's going on. Are you OK with all the kids, Lizzie? They probably shouldn't even be here."

"They're fine. I don't think any of us want to let them out of our sight. Plus, they all know there's something, don't they? I don't think any of them want to leave. Go on, tell Kim, and get a message to the Burrow, too. I'll see to the kids."

He nodded, and kissed her swiftly before heading out of the room. And in the hallway, he took a minute to lean back against the wall and cover his face with his hands.

It felt like an eternity had passed, Lily mused some time later, and wondered just how long they had been in here, waiting. She wasn't wearing her watch, and that always made her feel slightly naked. And she was still wearing those stupid dress robes. It would be nice to change – old jeans and a loose shirt would be great right about now – but there was no way she was leaving the hospital.

They'd have to do something soon, though, she thought suddenly, surveying the kids. She herself was sat back in one of the chairs, with Raine, her daughter, curled on the one beside her with her head in Lily's lap. Her youngest boy was asleep, her eldest curled against his father and staring blankly at the wall. Abi, Claudia and Gina were all asleep, too, and Max and Jasper were on either side of Ginny, leaning against her. Mason was slumped in a chair, just watching them all.

They should be home, safe in their beds, she thought with some guilt. But she couldn't imagine being able to sit here, waiting for news, without her children, her nephews and nieces, around her. She looked across the room, meeting James' eyes, and knew that he was thinking the same thing.

She was still debating on what to do when Lucy appeared in the doorway, and knocked lightly on the door frame. She was wearing her healer clothes, Lily noted, and looked exhausted. She'd only just finished a shift when she'd been dragged back here, and Lily wondered when her cousin had last slept.

All eyes were on Lucy, and when she smiled, albeit tiredly, hope rippled around the room.

"He's going to be OK." Lucy said. Ginny gave an audible sob, James sighed in relief, Albus muttered, "Thank God" and Lily found herself suddenly close to tears. She pressed her lips together and fought for control. Across the room, Ally had loudly exhaled the breath she'd been holding, and Lizzie had closed her eyes in relief. Hermione dropped her head on to Ron's shoulder, and he lowered his face to her hair, while Rose and Lorcan – who'd tightly gripped hands at Lucy's appearance – and Hugo and Meredith, visibly relaxed.

"He took a bad hit." Lucy told them, with blunt honesty. None of them, she knew, wanted lies and pretty words. "There was a lot of damage, and, you know, the head injury complicated things."

"You've fixed that, though." Lily said. "You can fix stuff like that, easy -"

"Not as easily as it looks, but yeah. We've seen to that. He's mostly OK, now. We're keeping him in overnight, just to keep an eye on him, and maybe a couple days longer if necessary."

"Can we see him?" James asked.

"Only Aunt Ginny. Sorry. I tried to talk them into more, but he's not really up to the crowd, you know? The best thing for you to do is go home, get the kids in bed, and try getting some sleep yourselves. If you come back in the morning, I'll swing it so you can see him. Aunt Ginny? If you don't feel up to it -"

"No. I want to see him." Ginny said, standing up carefully. "The rest of you, get home. Get my grandkids to bed."

"We'll wait, Ginny." Hermione said softly. "We'll take you home when you're ready." Ginny thought she might just stay all night, but didn't bother voicing it; her children wouldn't leave if they knew she wasn't. So she only nodded, and moved to stand with Lucy. After the goodbyes, the two of them exited the room.

"Auntie Ginny? Maybe you could talk Uncle Harry into spending more time at the ministry, and stay out of the field. I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life, and I really don't want to be again."

"I'll try, honey. Thanks, Luce. Really."

"No problem. That's what families are for, right?"

"Sure. Now, you get yourself home and get some sleep. Don't think I don't know how many hours you've spent in this place now. You must be shattered."

Lucy smiled a little. "I am. I'm going to go home and crash out." She stopped outside a door, and turned to face her aunt. "OK. He's a little bruised and stuff, but I'll bet he looks better than you're expecting him to. Just remember, he really is OK."

"Right. I will. Make you sure you go straight home, Lucy." With that, and a swift kiss on her niece's cheek, Ginny turned to push open the door.

He did look better than she'd been expecting. But it seemed to hit her that he wasn't as young as he'd once been. He wasn't that young boy who'd won a war, who'd defeated the most evil wizard in the history books, but a father, a grandfather, a man who'd lived five decades.

"Hi." He said, his voice a little croaky, as he looked at her. "Am I in trouble?" She crossed to sit on the end of his bed, and looked at him.

"Yes. You scared me, the kids, the grandkids. We've all been in the waiting room for hours. Everyone else is at the Burrow, also scared. Lucy came back, after shift, and fought all her superiors to get onto your medical team." She covered his hand with both of hers. "You're not supposed to be doing this, Harry. You're supposed to be the big boss man now, sitting safe in an office sending others out there. And that sounds awful, I know, but it's not supposed to be you in here. You've done your time. It's supposed to be someone else, now, and someone else's wife and children sat in that waiting room, wondering if their husband, their father, is going to make it home -" Her voice broke, finally, and she choked back a sob.

"I know. I'm sorry. But you know I still go out in the field sometimes, Ginny. How am I supposed to direct the team if I forget what it's like out there? I got stupid. Didn't take the tip-off seriously enough. By the time I realised what my instincts were telling me, it was too late. I'm sorry, Ginny. How're the kids?" He asked, using their usual term for their children and their children's spouses.

"On their way home. The grandkids were all pretty much asleep anyway, and Lizzie and Meredith are pregnant. James tried to talk them both into going home and getting some rest, but..."

"Yeah."

"You scared them. All of them. And me. So much, Harry. Don't ever do it again."

"I won't." He said softly, and she nodded. After releasing a shaky breath, she shifted, and curled against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I'm just going to lay here a minute."

"OK. The kids and grandkids were really all in the waiting room? All this time?"

"Yup. And Ron, Hermione, Rose, Lorcan, Hugo and Meredith. That's what family does, Harry. And you've got yourself a pretty great family."


	137. Always

**OK so I know not everyone will have any interest at all in this, but I just wanted to attempt it once the idea occurred to me. Besides, shouldn't Fred get some kind of happy ending?**

**137. Always**

She lowered herself slowly to the grass beside his grave. Wrong, she thought. It was all wrong. There was no possible way that his body could lay beneath that grass, lifeless and empty.

He'd been so full of life. She'd been drawn to him because of it. How could she ever picture him without that light, that laughter?

How could she live without him?

Tears were already glistening on her face as she stared at the pile of decorations and tributes, the flowers and gifts and heartfelt messages. She hadn't brought anything. Maybe she should have. But what exactly could have she have left to show everything that had happened? She had no proof of it, no photographs or tributes. Only the memories.

And, oh, she remembered. The first time she'd seen him was still vivid in her mind.

He'd been so out of place, stood with his brother, grinning and joking. His face was lit with happiness, with amusement. There was no fear. She, herself, could hardly stand the fear. They could all be dead anytime. Their loyalty was not to the Dark Lord, and that made them targets, even though her family was staying well out of the war.

There was nowhere to hide from the war. Nowhere to be safe.

He wasn't an invited guest. She knew that just by looking. He didn't have the elegance, the polish, of those around him; nor did his brother. And though his brother shared his face, his light, she barely glanced at him.

Fred had caught her attention. And he'd never let it go.

She'd been angry, at seeing him there, at the odd way she was feeling. So she'd stalked over to him, fixed him with a look and demanded to know who he was.

"Fred Weasley." He'd said easily, offering her a smile that made her stomach tighten.

"And who invited you?"

"No one. We came for the free food." Fred had replied. His voice was easy, his stance casual, but his eyes, locked on hers, were intense.

"I'll have to ask you to leave." She'd said to him, her voice cool and steady, even while her heart beat erratically.

"I'll have to ask you to dance." He'd replied, just as easily. She should have said no, ordered him to leave. She should have slapped him. She should have found her father, told him all about the uninvited guest, and his brother, who had slipped away looking amused.

Instead, she'd let him take her hand, and lead her out onto the dance floor.

He was a terrible dancer. It had made her laugh, in a way she hadn't laughed in too long. She hadn't cared about the curious looks, hadn't cared about the whispers. She'd been amused and enchanted by him.

Later, she would think she had fallen in love with him, right then, while they danced and he teased her and made her feel free.

She rolled over on the grass, stunned by the pain of the memory. She'd never felt that way before, that light, that free. And she'd known – as one dance slipped into another, then another – that she'd have to see him again.

She'd tried to forget him, of course. Tried to tell herself she was being stupid, that there were far more important things in the world than some silly crush on a stranger.

She might have succeeded. Maybe. But he wouldn't let her. Somehow, he managed to just be around, shooting her those smiles, coming over to her and talking to her. And touching her. An arm around her shoulders, or her waist, his hand gripping hers, casually brushing her hair from her face. And each time, a thrill shot through her.

Later, she would term it a whirlwind romance, and like the sound of it. But it didn't seem so fast at the time. By the first kiss, it was as though she'd known him forever.

Just a few short weeks later, she'd told him she loved him.

"Don't." He'd replied, looking terrified. "Don't say it."

"It's true." She'd said, lifting her face and looking annoyed. "Why shouldn't I say it?"

"Because – because this can't _last_. You know that. We're from different worlds."

"Don't tell me. I'm the rich, pure-blood princess, and you're the poor little peasant boy."

"Well it's true!"

"Spare me the drama, Fred. If you don't feel the same, then just say so. Don't try to save my feelings by -"

"Of course I feel the same! Isn't it obvious?" He'd dragged her closer, and glared at her. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be fun, like a game. It was never supposed to be like this. We're all wrong for each other."

"I don't care." She'd said stubbornly.

"I have nothing to offer you. That ballroom in your house, where we first met? The house I grew up in, my shop and the flat would all fit in that room. You have jewellery that costs as much as I earn in a year. More! Your parents would disown you if they knew about me -"

"_I don't care_."

He'd looked at her for a long moment, and kissed her until she was breathless.

They were in love. They were serious. Maybe it was just a young, idealistic fling that would have fizzled out and died. Maybe it was the real thing, and would have bound them to one another for ever. She didn't know; and now she never would.

But either way, it was love, and now that he was gone, the loss was a real, physical pain. Her parents didn't understand it; in the midst of the joy and celebration over the end of the war, their daughter would lock herself away and sob for hours, or stand in the ballroom and stare around, her face etched with pain. She had a hooded jacket that she'd sleep with, sob over, cling to like a lifeline. And she refused to explain herself at all. How were they to know she was sobbing over the death of the only boy she'd ever loved? How were they to know that when she stood in the ballroom she could see him, exactly how he had been, the first time she'd seen him? How were they to know that the hooded jacket was the only thing of his that she had, and that it still carried his scent?

She felt fresh tears slide down her face, and closed her eyes, remembering the last time she'd seen him.

"You're going to fight, aren't you?" She'd said, her voice serious. She was so seldom serious around him. He made everything more fun, and it was like nothing could be serious with him around. "When it kicks off, properly, you're going to be right there in the middle."

"That's where the most fun is." He'd told her, shooting her that grin. "Don't worry about me. Nothing'll happen to me."

"You're not invincible." She'd said.

"I'm too young to die." He'd replied, sounding amused. She had made a strangled, angry noise, and he'd laughed, holding up his arms. "OK, OK, I know I'm not. But seriously. Don't worry about me."

"It's going to happen soon." She'd murmured. "I can feel it."

He'd tilted his head, searching her face, and whatever he'd seen there had made his smile fade slightly. He'd moved to sit beside her. "OK. So I'll go, I'll fight, and I'll come home to you."

Hot tears had stung her eyes, but she'd nodded. "Make sure you do, Fred. Make sure you come home to me."

"I will."

"Make _sure_. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Hey." He'd lifted her chin with a finger. "Don't talk like that. For one thing, I'll make sure you don't have to be without me. OK? And for another, even if, by some chance, I didn't make it out of this war alive, you'll be fine without me. Great, even. You're going to have fun, you're going to do crazy things just for the fun of it. You're going to get married and have kids and live the kind of life, have the kind of happiness, that others only dream about."

She had said nothing, because she wasn't sure how to be fun without him, and she couldn't imagine a future that didn't have him in it.

Had she known what was coming? The idea of it taunted her now; that she'd somehow known she'd never see him again, somehow known that his days were numbered. If she'd pushed a little harder, could she have talked him into staying with her? His mother would have killed him if she'd known he was sneaking out of safety to see her, so would probably have killed the both of them after, but it would have been worth it, to keep him safe. To keep him with her.

She rubbed away the tears, and focussed on his headstone. The glossy black marble was etched with words; _beloved son, brother, twin and friend_ were underneath his name and dates. There was no mention of her. She didn't know how much – if anything - his family knew about her, and she didn't want to intrude now. She leaned forward to trace the final message with her index finger. _Eternally loved, never forgotten._

They didn't know it, whoever had chosen this message, but it was exactly how she was feeling. Somewhere beneath the shock and grief and misery was the knowledge that she'd love him forever – she would move on, she would do all those things he'd told her to, if only to honour his memory, but a part of her heart would always be his. And she'd never forget him, not a single detail.

"I love you." She whispered, touching his name. "I'll always love you."

There were daisies growing, close by. With another twist of her heart, she remembered his habit of presenting her with wildflowers. Swallowing a sob, she tugged one out of the ground and laid it on top of his headstone.


	138. Home Or Lack Thereof

**As ever, thanks for results. I wrote this one weeks ago and just found it; I think I was going to add to it, but, well I haven't.**

**138. Home (Or Lack Thereof)**

He thought it would feel different. He'd thought it would be more like home, his old home, before everything had gone bad and Voldemort had moved in.

It was different. It sounded, smelled and felt different than it had done when Voldemort lived here. There was no unnatural silence, or whispered meetings, or high, cold laugh or screaming rages. There was no scent of fear in the air, no faint smell of blood. There was no feeling of terror.

But it didn't feel like home. It didn't sound or smell like it.

Everything had, apparently, changed irrevocably when Voldemort had made the manor his headquarters, and even his death couldn't bring back Draco's home.

It was tainted. Everything about his home was tainted. He could look at the stairs, and remember that time when he was nine, and he sat on a step halfway up, listening to his parents discus what to get him for Christmas. He could remember the giddiness of spying and not being caught, and how big his smile had been when he'd slipped back up to his room, safe in the knowledge he was getting everything he wanted. He could remember that time he'd slid down the banister, knowing he'd be in trouble if he got caught. And how he'd nearly reached the bottom before falling sideways and hitting the floor, hard.

And he could remember sneaking down those steps, wondering where _he'd_ be, wondering if it was safe to go to the kitchen and find something to eat before hiding in his room again, with the door locked and his wand gripped tightly in his hand. He could remember climbing slowly up those stairs, every inch of his body trembling, and his mind screaming over what he'd just had to do.

Draco moved slowly through the house – the wall there was the one he'd drawn all over aged four, and also the one he'd collapsed against after a particular draining session with Voldemort – glancing into the drawing room – a clash, again, of childhood memories and ones from the last year – the dining room – a thousand meals eaten in here, and multiple Death Eater meetings – before turning back to the staircase and climbing up to his room.

His bedroom, which had become his sanctuary, and his prison. The bed was still where he'd moved it – equal distance from the door and the window, so he could escape from whichever one was necessary. There were still an assortment of knives and useful WWW products tucked into his drawers (as much as he'd despised the Weasleys, those twins knew their stuff), under his bed and mattress, the pockets of the clothes in his wardrobe. He'd taken steps to make the room as safe as possible; it had been the place he'd hidden in as much as possible.

And he thought now that if he'd had to spend another day shut up, listening intently for every sound, braced to defend, he might just snap. Trapped, like an owl in a cage.

Abruptly, he swept an arm along a shelf. The little porcelain figures his mother had carefully arranged countless years ago – some were antiques – crashed to the floor, shattering instantly.

This was his. This room, these things. Forever tainted by the fear and horror of the last year. His house was no longer his home; it would forever make him think of Voldemort, think of those sleepless nights, the times he'd whimpered in fear, the times he'd callapsed on that bed, too exhausted to stay up and alert, waking in the morning and almost weeping with the relief that he hadn't been murdered while he'd slept.

He couldn't stay here. It would break his mother's heart, but he couldn't stay here. Not if he wanted to keep his sanity. How could he?

He crossed to his bed, crouched down to pull a large bag from underneath. He barely paid attention to what he was throwing into it – just opening draws and shoving handfuls of clothes in.

He nicked his hand on one of the knives he'd stashed, the short, sharp blade leaving a thin red line on the side of his hand. He ignored it, turned to the wardrobe. He cursed when the bag refused to allow anything else inside, and muttered a charm impatiently, before going back to tossing possessions into the magically expanded bag.

"Draco." His mother's voice didn't surprise him. He still wasn't used to not having to listen out for any sound, and he'd heard her approaching. That was another thing. He'd never be able to relax here, to stop listening out for any signs of danger.

"I'm sorry." He said, without turning.

"Draco, please..."

He closed the wardrobe again, turned to the bookcase and tipped several books in, without stopping to check the titles. "I can't stay here. I _can't_. I'm sorry."

"Where will you go?" Narcissa leaned weakly against the door frame. "You've nowhere to stay. Please, just spend the night here, and in the morning -"

"I can't!" He whirled around, finally looking at her. All of his frustration vanished at the strain on her face. She looked so tired, and so worried. His voice was softer when he spoke again. "I'll suffocate here. It's...it's too much. I'll stay at the Leaky Cauldron or something tonight, and in the morning I'll find my own place. I have money."

The first hints of doubt crept into his voice there. He had money – of course he did – but he'd never lived anywhere but home and Hogwarts. Rent and bills and living costs were all a vague notion that didn't apply to him. But he'd be fine. He had enough money in his own bank, and his parents would always, he knew, bail him out if he needed it.

"You're just a child." Narcissa murmured, desperation on her face. "You can't live alone. You can't -"

"I'm hardly a child, Mother." He went back to his packing, not paying attention to what he threw in the bag. "I was a Death Eater, remember?" He bit the words of, and didn't have to look at her to know she winced. "Believe me, compared to the last year, living alone is nothing." He finally stopped, and zipped the bag closed.

"I'll send you a note when I find somewhere to stay. And, um, I'll come by and see you, tomorrow, I guess. Maybe the day after? Don't worry about me, Mother. Please."

She didn't want him to go. Oh, it hurt her so much to watch him leave, but how could she make him stay? She understood why he had to leave. But she cried herself to sleep that night.

And Draco didn't sleep at all, finding there was no pub or inn or anywhere that would take in a Death Eater, not even a teenage one.


	139. Choices

**Written mainly because I wanted something with Lily and James. Not exactly riveting stuff, I know, but hey, at least I'm updating regularly again. **

**139. Choices**

"Don't."

James's voice was quiet, pleading. And still, she jumped as though he'd shouted. "I wasn't." She said, without thinking, and then winced. "I mean...I don't know what you're talking about."

Of course she did. He knew exactly what she was thinking; he always knew.

"I'm sorry, Lily. I didn't know he'd be there. I wouldn't have taken you with me if I'd known -"

"No, no, I'm part of the order, I agreed to do these things. I can't stay at home safe while everyone else risks their lives, just because it stings a little to see him like that."

"Lily...I need to ask you something. I wasn't going to, but...but I have to."

"OK..." She finally turned away from the window and faced him.

"Did you love him?" That wasn't entirely what he wanted to know, but it was the best way to start.

She didn't look surprised. They'd been a couple for more than a year now, and had never really discussed her former friendship with Severus. Though she'd considered bringing it up herself, just to get it out of the way, she'd never quite managed to.

"Not how you mean." She told him, and moved to sit on the sofa. "I wasn't in love with him; I didn't love him in the way a girl loves a boy. But I _did_ love him. He was my best friend, James. He was the one who told me what I was, the one who told me all about Hogwarts and magic and this world. He was right there beside me when I went to Hogwarts, when I was scared and excited and everything was changing. For years, he was my best friend."

James said nothing.

"I hated it when he started changing. You never knew him properly, so you can't understand. But he was like...with me, he was Sev, he was my best friend and this great person. But with everyone else, he was Snape, the Slytherin lover of the dark arts...he hung around with the kids who were already Death Eaters, and that scared me. It terrified me. I begged him to stop, to step away from it all, and he didn't. I asked him to choose me over them, over the dark arts and Voldemort and all of it. And he didn't. You remember, that day by the lake? When he called me a mudblood?"

"I remember. I could have killed him for it."

"I know. I blamed you for it. Or I tried to. I wanted to. But, while you had pushed him and humiliated him, you hadn't made him say those words to me. You hadn't made him turn on me. He hurt me, James. I can't even explain what it was like; he might as well have stabbed me. So, that was it. He'd been pushing me away all that year, and that was the final straw."

"You cut him out of your life after that. I noticed. I'd always hated that you were friends with him, so I noticed when you weren't."

"Yes, I cut him out. I had to. It hurt me to do that, but not as much as it was hurting to watch him change. He wasn't the same boy he'd been. He wasn't my Sev anymore." And she'd grieved for that, for the loss of the friendship, for the loss of the friend she'd loved.

"Do you think...if he had chosen you, if he'd put you first...do you think he'd be stood here, where I am, now?"

She did look surprised now, understanding the question. "No, of course not. There was never anything romantic or sexual between us. We were just friends. If he'd chosen me, then he'd still be my friend, and you'd still be stood right there. I love you, James. I'm in love with you. You know that."

"Yeah, I do." But he also knew that she was wrong about her friendship with Sev lacking any romantic or sexual feelings. Not lying, just wrong, naively believing it, because that's how it was for her. But he knew. As someone who was desperately, hopelessly in love with Lily Evans, he recognised Snape's feelings.

"It still hurt you, to see him there tonight."

"Of course it did. He was still my friend once; I loved him once. And tonight I had to see him wearing a Death Eater's hood, with a dark mark, fighting against us. I thought I'd accepted that we were on different sides, that we'd made our choices, but I don't think I really did until tonight. So, yes, James, it hurt."

"I'm sorry. Lily...he loved you."

"I know." She replied, looking confused.

"No, I mean, he _loved_ you. Like I do. I knew back then, at school. I could see it; I think that's one of the reasons I hated him so much. Because he loved you, and you...I thought you might feel the same way about him. So I hated him."

"He didn't _love_ me. He loved me, as a friend, like I loved him."

"No, honey, he loved you like I do. And...Look, I'm only telling you because I'd feel weird keeping it from you. No secrets, remember? We promised."

"Yeah, we did."

"So it would just feel wrong to _not_ tell you. But I'm not trying to hurt you or make you mad or sad or whatever. Lily, he loved you in school, and he loves you now. He's still in love with you."

"Don't be ridiculous. I haven't seen him since we left Hogwarts, haven't spoken to him in nearly two years."

"You think being away from someone makes you stop loving them? That's not how it works. I'm sorry, Lily."

"You really believe he was – is – in love with me?"

"I know he is."

She stared at him for a long moment. "Maybe you're right. What am I supposed to do about that?"

"Nothing. There's nothing you can do, Lily. Like you said; you both made your choices."

She nodded. "He...he's going to end up dead, James. Maybe not tonight, maybe not anytime soon, but eventually, Voldemort will kill him. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that. I...I've already lost him. The boy I knew is already dead."

"So remember him like that." He finally moved to sit beside her, and put his arm around her. "Remember him as Sev, the boy who told you all about magic, and was your best friend. That Death Eater we saw tonight, fought against tonight, he's not the same person."

"No, I know. James...if it ever came down to a choice, between to two of you, I'd choose you. Remember that. And...if he's going to be on Voldemort's side, if he's going to fight against us, don't hesitate. Don't spare him for my sake. If it comes down to you or him, I need you to come home."

He understood what she was trying to saw, and couldn't reply. Instead, he pulled her closer, shifted so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

They stayed that way a long time, saying nothing.


	140. Always II

**Birthday today, and how did I celebrate? With a tattoo. Yup, with pain. Still, it's only little, so it wasn't too bad. Anyway, away from my mostly boring life, and onto this. Continuation from chapter 137 "Always" just because this seemed like a nice idea. I didn't really explain before, but for me, the "she" is a character who was never in the books, and that's the way I wrote her, but she's basically whoever you want her to be.**

**Thanks, as always, for reviews.**

**140. Always II**

She was at the grave again. It had been nearly two months, now, and she still felt his absence. Something vital was missing from her life, and she could feel it almost every minute of every day.

She was wearing his jacket. Though she was no longer sobbing over it, she had taken to wearing it, desperate to keep some part of him with her. So there she sat, by his grave, wearing his jacket, the hood tugged up. It was too big for her, and the first thing George thought was that she looked tiny and fragile.

He recognised her. Of course he did; hadn't he been right there when she and Fred had first found each other? Hadn't he seen their eyes lock, seen that odd look on Fred's face, and slipped away grinning to himself?

She didn't look the same now. For one thing, there was no fancy clothes and priceless jewellery, no careful make-up and easy elegance. She was huddled in that old jacket – he recognised that, too, and understood – her face pale and devoid of make-up, her eyes tired and sad.

He walked towards her slowly, and was nearly beside her before she looked up. For a moment she went pale, then he saw a flash of hope in her eyes for a fraction of a second before it was chased away by understanding.

She'd thought he was Fred. For one blissful moment, she'd thought he was Fred. Her heart ached all over again as George joined her, kneeling down opposite her.

"Hi." He said.

"Hi. I...um, I'll go. I'm sorry."

"Why?" He asked simply, and she nearly flushed. Because she didn't know what to say, she only shook her head. He looked at her for a long moment, then spoke again. "I know who you are."

She said nothing, only stared at him. "I was there when you met. You probably don't remember; you only had eyes for him, didn't you? He was the same, you know. The moment he saw you, he forgot about everyone else. He told me."

"He told you. About me? I didn't think...I didn't think he'd told anyone."

"Only me. I mostly guessed. But he liked having someone to tell about you...to brag to. He loved you. I don't know if he ever told you."

"Once." She murmured. "He only said it once. But I knew."

George nodded. "Scared him some. But he loved you. Desperately. You should know that."

"I love him." She said, and he didn't miss the use of present tense. "You should know that. I love him. I think I did from the moment I met him. I don't know...I don't know what to do without him. We were only together for a few weeks, but it's like...I can't remember how my life was before him. I feel like I have all this extra time, because he's not here to spend it with."

"I know the feeling."

She did flush then, and looked ashamed. "I'm sorry. He's your brother...I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Right back at you." He said, smiling a little. "I used to hear him sneak back in, you know. Covered for him a few times too. Mum would've killed him, and I guess it was dangerous. But he had to see you. That's what he told me. He had to see you."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she held them back. "I'm glad. I miss him. I miss him so much it's like this constant ache. I...I guess you understand that."

"Yeah. I do."

"He...The last conversation we had, I asked him not to fight, said I wouldn't know what to do without him. He fought anyway. I knew he would; it's who he was. But he, he said that if he didn't make it home – and he was so sure he would – I had to be happy. I had to have fun and be happy and marry and have kids."

"He wanted you to _live_."

"Yes. I...I think I'd've liked to marry him. It sounds stupid, saying it now, I know. And the idea of marriage would've terrified him. But I...I'd've had a fun, happy life with him."

"You can have one without him. He'd hate to think of you miserable."

She nodded. "I'm just not ready to let him go, you know?"

"Yeah. I still half-expect him to walk through the door. I still half-hope it's all some misunderstanding or joke."

"If only." She murmured.

"When you're ready, though, when you can move on, have fun. Be happy. Fall in love again and get married and have kids. Because that's what he wanted for you. That's the best thing you can do for him."

She nodded, tears finally spilling out of her eyes. "I will. I promised him I would, so I will. But I don't think I'll ever not miss him, you know?"

"I know."

She dragged her sleeve across her face, staining it with tears. "George...thank you. For helping him sneak out to meet me, for helping him crash that party where we met. It hurts, so, so much that he's gone, but it would be worse if I'd never known him. So thank you. And...thanks for this. Today."

He only nodded. She stood, and looked back down at the grave sadly. "See you, George."

"Bye." George murmured, and watched as she plucked a daisy from the ground, then laid it on top of the headstone. George had noticed the daisies before, wondered where they'd come from. Understanding, now, that she'd been leaving them, he sighed at the grave. And then, for a long time after she'd left, he just stared at his brother's name.


	141. Thrills

**Thanks, as ever, for reviews. More Lily/Scorpius stuff, 'cause I like them.**

**141. Thrills**

"Ugh." Lily stormed into her room, threw her jacket towards the armchair – it missed and slid to the floor, but she didn't notice - and flopped down on her bed.

She was mad. Oh, so, so mad. She was almost shaking with it.

The knock on her door reminded her she'd left it wide open; looking up she saw Scorpius leaning against the door frame. "Hi."

"Hi." She said, her voice flat. "Who let you in?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You gave me the spare key. Told me to meet you here."

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Plans." She didn't sit up, though.

"Yeah. Plans." He moved further into the room, and sat on the side of her bed, looking down at her. "What's up?"

"Stuff." She murmured, not bothering to deny it. He'd seen she was upset, of course. He could always see it, even when she was trying to hide it.

"What stuff?"

"I had a fight with Lydia. She pisses me off sometimes."

"About?"

She shrugged. "It was stupid. Nothing. But we just wound each other up too much. I stormed out before I slapped her."

"You wanna go over, make up?"

She shook her head. "No. Too pissed. And...I'm always the one who goes over to make up. She doesn't look it, but she can be stubborn, and she...as far as she's concerned, she's never wrong. I mean, she'll tell you that she'll back down and apologise when it's her fault, but she never _thinks_ it's her fault. So I'm the one who ends up giving in."

"Taking the high road." Scorpius corrected.

"Giving in. Deciding it's not worth it. This time, she's going to have to. She's so obviously in the wrong, so she can back down and apologise. I'm sick of it. So I guess we'll see how much I'm worth to her."

"You're worth everything to her. She loves you."

Lily shrugged. "I guess I just...I get this idea of my mates as perfect, you know? When everything good with us, I'm like, oh they're the best friends ever, they're perfect, I'm so lucky. So then, when they let me down, or we fight, or whatever, it's worse. And that's my problem, I know, for building them up so much, for counting on them too much."

"No, you should be able to count on your friends. That's what they're there for."

Lily nodded, and looked up at him. "Friends grow apart, don't they? I mean, it happens all the time. People change, their interests change, their priorities change, and they drift apart. What if that happens to me? What will I do then?"

"I don't know. But you'll always have me. I promise." He lifted her left hand, the one that had been wearing his engagement ring for barely a week now. "That's what _this_ means, Lily. That I'll always love you, always be there for you. So, if you do grow apart from your friends – which you won't, but hypothetically, if you did – you'll always have me. I know that's not the same, and it's not enough, but -"

"No, no, it is. Scorpius...I know I don't say this stuff as much as I should. I guess it scares me, still, and I don't always know how to put it into words, but I'll try to get better at it." She linked her hand with his. "I love you. I'm crazy about you. It still scares me, but it – it thrills me, too. I love you so much, sometimes my heart aches from it. I'll look at you, or you'll say something or do something, and it's like, I get that ache, and I just think, _there he is, God, I adore him_. I...As long as I've got you with me, I know everything will be OK, that I'll be OK."

"Not having second thoughts, then? About getting married?"

"No." She said honestly. "I'd marry you tomorrow. Hell, if you wanted to run away and get married now, I would."

"But Molly would kill us." He said, even though the idea of it caused a quick thrill.

"Yep. She's looking forward to this big family wedding. Already planning it. But, hey, if you're willing to risk it, we could run away tonight, come back in the morning with matching rings -"

"I value my life. And yours." He said, pleased to see her smiling. "I'd love to marry you sooner rather than later. But Molly said if you're set on autumn, it'll have to be next year."

"Yeah, I know. Scorpius...let's start looking for a house." She sat up, her eyes suddenly serious. "I mean, we can't get married tonight -" And she was only just realising quite how lovely that fantasy was, and how difficult it was to let go of – "but we can start looking for a house, right? I mean, I know it'll take a while to find one, but if we start looking now -"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. Yes, let's find a house, and move into it, and live together. We can decorate it how we want, and pick the furniture, and make it – make it ours. I want a life with you, Scorpius. I want to start it as soon as possible."

"OK. Let's start looking." His face was lit up, delighted laughter in his voice. "Let's find our house. Let's start that life."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Thrilled, she kissed him. The she clung to him, because she could.


	142. Count the Moments

**Something...different. Mainly rambling, I guess. The first bit came to me (inspired, admittedly, by an episode of One Tree Hill) and it just went from there.**

**Thanks, as always, for reviews.**

**142. Count the Moments**

_I never knew Fred Weasley. I know of him. He was a brother, a twin, a son, a friend. He was a wizard, a joker, an optimist. He was brave and reckless and amusing. _

_He died long before I could have the chance to know him, before I was even born. He died in a war, fighting. And he died laughing, which, by all accounts, was very fitting. I never knew him, but I see parts of him every day. I see the hole he left in his family. I see the pain that flits into his mother's eyes every now and then, as she remembers him, and remembers the loss of him. I see the quiet sadness on his father's face as he wonders "what if?" What if just one thing had changed that night? What if they'd never gone to the castle to fight? What if Fred had chosen to go to another part of the castle? What if it hadn't been that wall that caved in, but another? What if Fred had been standing just an inch to the left? Would any tiny change have kept his son's heart beating?_

_I see the times when something changes among his siblings; where, sometimes, his absence shifts a beat in their dynamic. You can almost hear where his response would have fitted in, almost see what his actions would have been. So when another sibling speaks or acts, it's slightly off – because it shouldn't be them._

_He's been gone for a long time, now, but his absence still marks them all. Not obviously, not even constantly. But the mark is there, and sometimes its visible. After all this time, his loss is still felt, he is still missed._

_I hear the stories, too. The stories of his life, the stories of his death. They're almost like my own memories, I've heard them so often, and they give me a picture of him. And, also, a picture of the days immediately after he was gone. The grief and the pain and the anger. The tears, the tantrums, the misery and the guilt. I can picture those, but I can't imagine living them. I can't imagine the pain of losing a loved one; nor do I particularly want to. _

_If he's affected my life at all, it's the knowledge that life can end before you're ready for it to. Fred Weasley was twenty years old, he had a whole life left to live. He had plans and hopes and dreams, and I doubt it occurred to him that all of those would be left unrealised. I doubt he thought, when he entered the castle that night, that he'd lived his last day, that every beat of his heart was a countdown. Life can be ended in the time it takes to click your fingers. "Click" and it's all over. So knowing what I know of him, I know to live as much as I can, to be happy and have fun. Live in the moment, because that moment could be your last._

_This is a philosophy I try to live by, though it's not always easy. When you've always had a tomorrow, it's difficult to adjust to the possibility that you might not get another. Sometimes you do just want to sit around and do nothing, and sometimes you have to go along with life, rather than living it. You have to go to school or to work, you have to eat and sleep and do difficult things. You have to live like there is a tomorrow, because otherwise every day would be chaos._

_But every new day would be a gift, and wouldn't that be something?_

_So, whenever possible, live. Do something fun and crazy, do something that makes you laugh. Do something that will give you a damn good memory if you are able to look back in a few years. In those moments when you don't have to just go along with what life gives you, when you don't have to deal with the tedious things like school or work, when you don't have to focus on responsibilities and decisions, do something. Make those moments count. Because who knows how many more moments like that you have left? And make your mark. If you were to die today, would your loved ones still bear the marks of that loss in a couple of decades?_

_It's easy to let life pass you by, to think that, in a few days or weeks or months or years, you'll have the time to live like you want to. It's easy to grow comfortable in the knowledge that you'll have a tomorrow. But that's a lie. There is no guarantee of tomorrow, there's no definite future for any of us. So while it's not exactly nice to think that today could be your last, that you may have just slept your last sleep, eaten your last meal, smiled your last smile, it's a thought that you should have, at least from time to time. Because there's nothing like death to make you live._

_Fred Weasley, like so many others, ran out of moments. I like to think that he packed enough life into his twenty years that he could die with few regrets. When I hear the stories about him, about all the fun and laughter he found the time for, it's almost as if he knew that his time was short, his moments limited. Maybe death was like a shadow, following him, counting down every breath, every heartbeat, forcing him into making his moments count._

_I hope my own end comes later than his did, that I have more years left. I hope that death hasn't yet looked at me, isn't yet counting down the heartbeats. But if it is, if my time is shorter than I'd like it to be, I hope I die like he did; with a smile on my face a few regrets, safe in the knowledge that I lived while I could. _

_People talk of the lessons we learned from the war. Isn't this one of them? Maybe it would cause too much chaos if we all lived our day as if it was the last. Maybe the world would collapse. But if, for just a few moments every day, you felt properly alive, wouldn't that be OK?_

_This is the only advice I've ever taken from Fred Weasley, the only lesson I've learned from him. So I'll try my best to live by it._

_I never knew Fred Weasley, but I know of him. He was a brother, a twin, a son, a friend. He was a wizard, a joker, an optimist. He was brave and reckless and amusing. _

_He was my father's twin, and my namesake._

_I never knew Fred Weasley, but he's a part of me, and he's with me every day._

(He never handed the essay in. He scribbled a title at the top – How the War Affected Me – just like he'd been told to. But he never handed it in. Partly because it was just a little too personal, partly because the effort he'd put into it would have shocked his teacher too much, and partly because he skipped the lesson it was due in for, and swam in the lake with the giant squid instead.)


	143. Freedom

**Just because. I actually started this ages ago and apparently abandoned it. Got to stop doing that. Anyway, found it, finished it, and added the Tennessee Williams quote at the beginning, which, obviously, belongs to him and not me.**

**143. Freedom**

_A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages._

How many times had she dreamed of running away? How many times had she wished for the freedom to just go?

To get on her broom and fly, keep flying until she found a place she wanted to be. Board a train, any train, and see where it took her. Run away to a little cottage in the countryside where she could be completely and totally alone. Run to a big, busy city, where she could be lost in the crowd. Anonymous.

Freedom. That was all she wanted, all she craved. Just freedom. Freedom to sit alone for more than a minute without someone sitting beside her, trying to draw her into a conversation. Freedom to just be _Ginny_ again, instead of the girl who'd been through a war, lost a brother and friends and her innocence. Freedom to stand in the rain without everyone worrying about her, freedom to scream when the nightmares took over, without worrying she'd scare her family.

Freedom. God, she'd never wanted anything so badly.

"Hey." Harry's voice interrupted her thoughts – daydreams – and she almost growled in annoyance.

"Hi." She replied flatly, her teeth gritted. Thirty seconds, she thought bitterly. She'd managed thirty seconds alone before he'd come out. She'd just wanted a few minutes, just be outside in the fresh air, and alone.

"Are you okay?" He asked, in that _tone._ The tone was going to drive her crazy one day. That careful, quiet, concerned tone, the one that seemed to imply she was on the point of breaking. And maybe she was, from time to time. Maybe she'd balanced on the edge of a breakdown more times than she cared to admit, but she was getting better, wasn't she?

"Yes. Harry, there's really no need to worry about me. I can be alone for a few minutes without anything happening to me. There's no danger now, remember?" _Except in my dreams, except in my mind._

He shrugged, and said nothing. This only infuriated her more.

"I'm fine." She snapped. "I'm safe, and I'm not going to fall apart, OK? The bruises have healed, the scars have faded, and I'm – I'm _myself_ again. You said so yourself. I'm _healing_ Harry, and I don't need you to be my shadow."

"You've been avoiding me." He said. It was a statement, not an accusation, and faced with it, she didn't bother to lie.

"Yes."

"Why?"

She blew out a breath, and shrugged, because the truth was too pathetic, and she couldn't come up with a lie.

"Ginny...I thought we were...I thought we were doing OK? You're right – you're getting better, you're yourself again. And we were...what did I do?"

"Nothing." _Yet_.

"Then what? You're quieter, almost like you're sulking, and you start an argument every time we're together -"

"That's because you won't leave me alone! Damn it, Harry, you're suffocating me. I can't have a minute to myself without you jumping up and checking on me. What's the point? What difference would it make if I was okay or not? You're leaving in a few weeks anyway. This time next month, you'll be back at Hogwarts, I'll be here, and..." She trailed off, suddenly aware she'd said too much.

"Is that was this is about? Are you upset that I'm going back to Hogwarts? Ginny, you could come too -"

"I can't. God, Harry, I've told you this. How can I go back into the corridor where Fred..." She swallowed, hard, and made herself say the words. "Where Fred died? How can I walk up the stairs without remembering how I saw a boy killed at the top – I didn't know him, Harry, I didn't know his name or his voice or anything about him, but I'd seen his face countless times around school, and now I'll never forget it – how can I go up the stairs without remembering that, remembering how I fell down those stairs trying to get away from the Death Eater, because _I_ didn't want to die, too? I walk through those doors, I can feel the pain in my knee, I can feel every bruise and cut, every ache. I can feel how tired I was, how difficult it was just to breathe, how sick I felt, how scared." Appalled, she closed her mouth and swallowed the rest of the words that wanted to tumble out.

"You don't talk about it. That night. Maybe you should." He murmured, only making her more aware that she'd never said so much about that night.

"I can't. I remember it all, Harry, too clearly to ever go back to Hogwarts. It won't ever be just Hogwarts for me. It'll always be the place my brother died, the place I saw and experienced all those horrific things...I – I ran into Bill, eventually. I think I – I might not have made it out alive if I hadn't." And there it was, that thought that had been taunting her for weeks now. "I was exhausted. My shoulder was bleeding, I'd sprained my knee, I was covered in bruises. I'd just fallen down the stairs, and every part of me hurt. I was covered in dust, my ears were ringing, I felt so sick. I didn't want to die. I'd never known, until that moment, how much I didn't want to die. I wanted my mother." She made a sound that was almost a laugh.

"Ginny..."

She shook her head. "I wanted my mother. I wanted her to tell me it was all OK, it was just a bad dream. That I was safe. But, see, I knew it was real, and nothing was OK. I knew – I knew she might be already dead. I knew someone was. I felt it. I didn't know who, but I _felt_ that someone was. I guess I must've been pretty hysterical when Bill grabbed me. I was rambling, and he got me away. To an empty room. Where I could breathe. If he hadn't, I think I'd've just given up. Or I'd've been killed, because I didn't have the energy, the concentration for it anymore. How can I ever go back there, without relieving it? And I can't relive it, Harry. It's bad enough dreaming about it."

He said nothing for a long moment. He wanted to reach out, to hug her or touch her, but wasn't quite sure she'd want him to. "You're still having nightmares. Hermione...Hermione said she thought they'd mostly stopped now."

Ginny shrugged. "They're not every night now. They're not – they're not as bad, 'cause I'm sort of used to them." And more practiced, now, at clawing her way out of them and holding back the screams. "I just – God, I need to breath. I need to have more than thirty damn seconds alone. I need to have everyone stop watching me and crowding me and acting as though I can't make it through the day without them by my side. I made it through the worst year of my life without any of you stood next to me, OK? I'm not nearly as helpless as you think I am -"

"I know you're not helpless. You're one of the most amazing people I know." She blinked at him, and he blushed. For a second, they both turned awkward.

"I didn't mean to shout at you." She said finally, and pushed her hair back off of her face. He wasn't going to leave her alone now. She wasn't exactly presenting a stable mental state, after all. So there was no chance he'd leave her alone. "Let's go inside." She sighed.

The arm he slung over her shoulders as they headed towards the house was supposed to be comforting, but it wasn't, really. And the house that had always been her home was fast becoming her cage.


	144. Crazy

**Thanks for all reviews. Seriously.**

**144. Crazy**

They say he's crazy.

Maybe he is. Maybe he always was. He did a few crazy things in his youth. So maybe he was never quite balanced.

But this isn't like that. This isn't the kind of crazy that made him leap off of that astronomy tower that one time, swinging himself onto his broom at the last moment and feeling like he'd cheated death. This isn't the same kind of crazy that made him tell Snape how to get into the Shrieking Shack, just to see what would happen. This isn't the kind of crazy that made him run headfirst into several battles, not caring if he lived or died.

This is a new kind of crazy. Azkaban crazy. This is the kind of crazy that makes those around him scream. Just scream. Not in pain or in sorrow or in fear. It's something else entirely. Sometimes the screaming becomes too much and he joins them. Sometimes he slips into his canine form and howls. Sometimes he whimpers.

Sometimes, he sits and stares at the wall and remembers.

He remembers a thousand days, a thousand nights, where he felt alive. Where he felt whole. Nights when he had James and Remus and Peter with him. If they were with him, everything was OK. Everything was perfect.

He remembers the look on Peter's face right after he'd caught him. That look of part fear, part shame, and part defiance. The look at told him all he needed to know. The look that killed of that last hope that it was all a mistake. The look that told him, once and for all, that Peter had betrayed them all.

And he remembers the house. Lily and James' lovely little cottage, destroyed. James, folded on the floor, completely empty of all life. Too pale, too still, so clearly dead that Sirius' heart broke right then and there. He remembers clutching that body, rocking, and whispering his apologies. He remembers stumbling up those half collapsed stairs to find Lily, and carrying her carefully back down the ruined stairs to James. He remembers hugging her until all the warmth of life left her, because he was sure James would have wanted that. Then he remembers laying her gently beside James, and sitting with them for just a little longer.

He remembers murmuring that one, final goodbye, before he left.

Those are the memories that are clearest here, of course. It's the kind of place that makes you relive the worst times of your life, not the best.

It's the kind of place that steals all happiness and hope from you. The kind of place that steals your sanity.

He doesn't want to scream. He doesn't want to whimper, or to cry, or to remember. He doesn't want to dream, either, because his dreams are never good, and often he wakes from them screaming, or sweating and shaking.

But what else is there to do? He is in prison here, locked away behind bars and bricks, surrounded by dementors and water.

Sometimes he laughs at that. The idea that they need to lock him away in a building, on an island, to put him in prison. He was put in a prison the moment James was killed. A prison of guilt and grief and pain and horror.

He'd lost his best friend – his brother in all the ways that counted, the person who completely understood him, the person who'd always been by his side and never let him down, whether he deserved it or not – and not even being locked up here could make that worse.

Nothing could. James was dead, Peter was a traitor, and Remus had – understandably but no less painfully – deserted him, believing the worst in him.

No, nothing could make this worse. But he was stuck here, reliving those horrific memories, feeling nothing but his own pain.

And screaming, or howling, or whimpering

They said he was crazy.

Maybe he was.


	145. Always III

**Final part to this "Always" stuff. I'm still not going to give her a name, though. She's whoever you want her to be.**

**Thanks for all the reviews you amazing people. Can't believe there's this many.**

**145. Always III**

Had five years really been and gone? Time was relative, she supposed. Sometimes it felt like the war had only ended days ago; sometimes it felt like it had been a whole other life. Someone else's.

But mostly, it felt like her past.

She didn't come here often anymore. In the early days, she'd come a few times a week. Towards the end of that first year, it was once a week. It had taken her a long time to let go of what could have been, to let go of the bitterness at losing the boy she loved, and the life they could have had together. But now, five years later, she rarely came to his grave.

Today, though, she was here. She knelt down beside the grass, and skimmed her gaze over the words on the gravestone. He'd've been twenty-five now. So strange to think of him like that. An adult, rather than the boy she'd known. He'd been barely a man.

So could see how he would've looked, of course. She saw George from time to time, so she could see how Fred's face would've changed, over time. She went by the shop every once in a while, and it still hurt, just a little, to imagine him there, seeing what his little joke shop had become. His dreams had been realised, he just wasn't there to see it.

It wasn't that all-consuming, raw pain it had once been, though. More of a dull ache every now and then. Less and less as time went on.

"Hi." She murmured. "It's me. Been a while, hasn't it? I'm still not sure how much time you'd want me to spend here. Would you be upset that I'm not here every week? Or would you be pissed at me for still coming here, instead of being out there living?"

She plucked a blade of grass, and toyed with it.

"I am living. I know I was a mess for those first few months. Not much better for the next few. But I'm living, now. I'm doing everything that I want to. You taught me to do that, so...I've moved on. I still feel a little guilty about that. Like I should be here every day, sobbing by your grave. Or – or like I should have gone completely crazy and come here pretending you're still alive and that we have this life together. I used to dream like that. That you were alive and we had this amazing life. Somehow, those dreams were worse than the nightmares. I...I have this...this fiancé, actually. Um, we've been together a while. I mentioned him once, before. Asked if you'd be OK with that. I decided you would be. You'd told me to, hadn't you, so you would be. But still, it's weird now, being engaged to him. And...and we're going to have a baby." She couldn't help and thrilled, stunned laugh. "I still can't get over that. A baby."

She shifted, dropped the blade of grass.

"I just...I just need you to know – and I've got to believe that you can hear me, that you're somewhere listening to this – that I'm happy. I'm engaged, and pregnant, and happy. I've got this great life now, Fred. But I also need you to know that I'll always love you. I love my fiancé, I'm in love with him, but I'll always love you, just in a different way. We were so young, and it was all so fast. I'm older now, so it's a different kind of love. He knows about you. He understands. That's one of the reasons I love him. He understands that you'll always be in my heart. One day, I'll bring this baby here, and tell them all about you, and how you made me feel. I'll never forget you. I'll never stop loving you. I know I haven't visited, these past couple years, as much as I did in the early days. I need to believe that you're OK with that. And that, if I start visiting even less, you'll be OK with that, too. It'll never be OK that you're gone, Fred, never be OK that you're not here. But _I'll_ be OK. I hope you understand that."

She sat there for a while longer, saying nothing. And as she stood to leave, she pulled a daisy from the ground, and laid it carefully over the top of his grave.


	146. Beauty

**Back to the war stuff, looks like. Thanks, so much, for the reviews.**

**146. Beauty**

She wasn't crying. He handled her better when she was crying. All he really had to do was hold her, let her sob it out, stroking her hair and whispering comfortingly. She wasn't screaming, either, and he could handle that, too. Then all he had to do was stand back while she screamed and raged at him. Usually, she'd then dissolve into tears, so it was OK. Not that he liked to see her cry. In fact, it was rather heartbreaking, those hopeless, bitter tears.

But this was definitely worse. While she just stared into space, _that_ look on her face. She'd looked in a mirror again. It was on the floor where she'd tossed it after it had shown her the wreckage of her face. It had been a month now, and she was no closer to accepting her new appearance. Despite everything, all the loss the war had caused, it was her beauty she mourned the most.

"Lavender."

"Don't." She turned away from him, closed her eyes. "I don't want you to see me. Not like this." She lifted a hand to one of the angry pink scars, and cringed when she felt it. She'd stopped being surprised. In the early days, she'd been shocked every time she'd looked in the mirror; shocked to see the mess of scars, shocked to see how different she looked. She'd figured that was the worse, feeling the shock, and the grief of it, every time she saw her reflection. But she'd been wrong. Now she was no longer surprised, it only seemed more hopeless. She was aware of the marks, always.

Seamus didn't bother pointing out that he'd already seen her like this, multiple times now. Instead, he dragged a hand down his face. "Why?"

She blinked at him. "My face is a mess, Seamus. I – I used to be pretty."

"At least you're alive, Lavender." He said, trying to keep his voice calm, though he was losing patience.

"But I'm not _me_ anymore. Look at me!"

"I see you! I see the scars, Lavender. I see how different you look, and I know it's hard for you. But you need to stop this! You need to stop crying over it, and sulking, and brooding, and – and throwing tantrums. You need to accept it, and just move on with your life, just like everyone else."

"No one else looks like me!"

"Are you serious? Merlin, Lavender. So you've lost your looks. Big deal. Ron Wealsey's lost a brother. Colin Creevey lost his life. Do you think you're the only one with scars? We've all got scars, Lavender. I killed a man. Do you think that hasn't left its scars?"

She stared at him. He hadn't told her. She'd known, because he'd sobbed it out to Dean, who'd told Parvati, who'd told her. But she hadn't quite believed it, not until he'd said it, with that indescribable look on his face. Part pain, part grief, part shame, part something else entirely. And she noted, for the first time, that there was a quiet, haunted look in his eyes.

"I...I don't know what to say." She whispered finally.

"Say you'll stop this, Lavender. Say you'll try to get better. Say you'll try to move on, and live your life."

"I...I just...How? How do I get past it? Look at me..."

"I'm looking, Lavender, and I still see you. Yeah, OK, you look different. But you're still you. Lavender, I found you, after you were attacked. You were nearly dead. You were – broken and bleeding and dying, right there in my arms, and I've never been as scared as I was then. But you came back from that. You fought back. You're so brave, Lavender. Gryffindor, remember? That's all the scars show. That you're brave. You can't focus on them, Lavender. You're still beautiful. The scars...they show that we won. Despite everthing we've lost, we won."

"But..."

He shook his head. "They're just the proof, aren't they? The scars we all have. They're the proof that we survived."

"I...Yeah, I guess they are."

"You're still beautiful, Lavender. You're beautiful."

He whispered it, and then kissed her and whispered it again. And, in that moment, she believed him.


	147. Tell Me

**Wrote this at work, so bits might not make much sense. Had to keep breaking off to, um, work. Shouldn't be writing there, of course, but hey, I hate the job, they pay me next to nothing, give us half the lunch break we're supposed to get without paying us any extra, and treat us badly. So if writing gets me through the day, why not?**

**Anyway. Hugo hasn't gotten much attention on Jigsaw Pieces, but I've been trying to find the time to get this idea written for months now. Loosely based on a personal experience, though this has a happier ending that I got. And is more dramatic.**

**147. Tell Me**

He was glaring. He knew it, and couldn't care. There she was, across the room, talking and laughing with Lysander. Looking so much the same as she had last year, but different, too. Her hair was different; a little shorter, a little curlier. She'd spoke to him, too, when he'd been stood in a group with Zander and Lorcan and a few others. She'd joined in the group conversation, spoken to him, smiled at him. And he'd been sunk.

And now there she was, flirting with Zander. Goddamn it, did it have to be Zander? What the hell was he going to do if the two of them got together? If he had to see her, day after day, all cosy with one of his best friends?

No. No chance in hell. He sipped his bottle again, then walked over. "I need to talk to you." He said bluntly, looking at her.

She raised her eyebrows, but nodded. "OK. Back in a sec, Zander."

He spun on his heel and walked off, knowing she was following him. And knowing she was looking unimpressed at his demanding attitude. He stopped on the staircase. Though it was the party of a mutual friend, he didn't know the house well enough – or the friend, to that matter – to start poking around the bedrooms. So he leaned against the wall, and looked at her. She sat down on the stairs, and look back at him. After a long, humming moment, she spoke. "Talk, then, Hugo, if you want to talk."

She'd missed him. Oh, it was lowering to admit it, but she'd missed him. Had it really been a whole year since she'd last spoken to him? A year since she'd spent those two weeks with him, growing closer, getting her hopes up, starting to think that maybe, just maybe...

And then he'd walked away. Without apology or explanation. And hurt her. She hated to admit it, but he'd hurt her, and he'd humiliated her. She hadn't loved him. Oh, of course not. She'd barely known him, met him only a few times before. But she'd liked him, a lot, and she'd been on her way to adoring him. She still remembered the night they'd been in the common room, cuddled up on the sofa, not entirely sober, after celebrating winning the Quidditch cup. Everyone else had been in bed, or drunkenly passed out, and it had been like they were the only two people in the world who were awake. He'd amused her, and he'd charmed her, and she'd fallen asleep adoring him. She'd spent two weeks talking to him, laughing with him – he'd always been good at making her smile – and then he'd left. No, she hadn't loved him. But she could have, one day. And the experience had given her that first real taste of heartbreak and rejection.

And now here he was. A full year later, glaring at her. Daring her to disregard all the effort she'd put into forgetting him.

"Go on, Hugo." She said, her voice determinedly cool. He twirled his bottle around in his hands.

"I miss you."

She raised her eyebrows, studied him with what she hoped was a coolly detached look. She hoped fervently that he hadn't seen that stab of shock, anger, and longing. She was disgusted by that part of her that wanted to just cross to him, to take him back. That part of her that didn't care if he left her again, but was just willing to enjoy whatever she could. The rest of her, however, was much less forgiving.

"Mmm, I guess that's what happens when you just walk away from someone, without a backwards glance."

"Meredith..." He flushed guiltily.

"What? Damn it Hugo. You don't get to do this, OK? You don't get to walk back into my life after a year – a fucking year Hugo – and tell me you miss me. Do you remember what happened last time? Do you remember how you just randomly cut off all contact?"

"Yes. I'm sorry -"

"Would've been nice to hear that at the time."

"Look, I was – I was stupid, OK? You were...I thought you weren't interested. You didn't exactly seem -"

"Are you serious? My God, Hugo, I could never figure you out. I had my friends, and your friends, telling me you liked me, but you never did, you never even gave me a particular sign. I mean, God, Hugo, you never even kissed me. If I'd been sure about you – not even one hundred per cent sure, but a little surer than I was, I'd've probably got up the guts to make the first move. But I wasn't, so I didn't, and you just didn't bother either."

"I...I guess I gave up on you. I didn't figure it was going to happen, and...well. It was stupid, I know."

"Yeah, it was." She stood. "Is that all?"

"What? No – Meredith -"

"Look, Hugo. It's great to see you, and you know, I've missed you too." It cost her, keeping her voice light and casual, keeping her face relaxed, but she managed it. She had too much pride not to. "So fine, we can be friends. Great."

"I don't want to be your friend, Meredith."

"Well I don't much want to be yours at the minute, but that's all I've got to offer you. You don't even realise, do you? You don't realise what it was like for me?"

"I know it pissed you off, Meredith, but -"

"Pissed me off?" She stared at him, and shook her head. "Yeah, I guess it did. But that was nothing. You humiliated me, Hugo. You _hurt_ me."

Appalled that she'd admitted it, she turned and walked away from him. And he watched her go, stunned.

He'd never thought he'd hurt her. He'd known he'd treated her badly, figured she was bound to be angry, maybe a little embarrassed. But hurt? He hadn't known he _could_ hurt her.

Sipping his drink absently, he made his way back into the living room. She was back with Zander, talking to him, even managing a laugh. But the laugh seemed false, and her eyes sparked with anger.

For a long time, he stood in a corner, sipping his drink, and watching her, while the party continued around him. For a while, he pretended not to be watching her, then he figured there was no point in pretending. She shot a good few looks at him, too, and he liked to think that meant she was thinking about him. Eventually, Lydia sidled up to him, stood beside him, and rested her elbow on his shoulder. "Stop sulking."

"I'm not sulking."

"Yes, you are. You look a lot like Uncle Ron at the minute. Why don't you just go talk to her?"

"Tried that. She said I hurt her, Lydie. I didn't know I'd hurt her. I didn't know I could." And he was still baffled over it.

"That's 'cause you're a guy, and a particularly clueless one. Of course you hurt her, Hugo. I told you at the time you were being a jerk about the whole thing, and unfair to her. Let me ask you, though, why do you want her now? I'm not being funny Hugo, but if you'd wanted her that much last year, you'd've done something about it. She figures that you either never liked her to begin with, or that you changed your mind."

"I never changed my mind. And, believe me, I liked her. I still do. I just...I guess I just figured it should be easier. She didn't put any effort in either, and I figured she didn't really...She said she didn't know where she stood with me."

"Of course she didn't. You never told her, never even really showed her. And while I know you well enough to know that's just how you are, she didn't. What do you want from her, Hugo?"

"I don't know. I guess I want to be with her."

"You barely know her." Lydia pointed out stubbornly. He looked down at her.

"Why are you so against this?" He asked curiously. "What happened to the diehard romantic, the love-conquers-all matchmaker?"

"I like Meredith. She doesn't deserve to be messed around like that again. I was the one who told her you were into her, Hugo, I was the one who tried to push you guys together after you told me you liked her. So I felt guilty when you messed it all up and hurt the poor girl. So be sure, OK, be sure what you want before you go after her again."

"I am sure. Really, Lydia."

"Be careful, Hugo. You never do realise just how...breakable people are. Be careful with her."

"I will. I'm not going to hurt her again, Lydia."

She looked at him for a long, long moment, then nodded. "OK. Do you want me to talk to her? She doesn't seem like your biggest fan at the minute."

"Ah...yeah, OK. Can't hurt, I guess."

Lydia nodded. "OK. Thank me later." He watched her walk over to Meredith, talk to her quietly, then draw her away and out of the room.

It took almost an hour for Lydia and Meredith to come back into the room. While Hugo spent much of that time wondering what the hell they could find to talk about for so damn long, he'd grown up around females and knew just how long girls could talk for when they got together. So he tried to put it out of his mind, tried to talk to Lorcan and Zander, then to Lily – who was sympathetic but basically told him the same thing Lydia had – and, as the minutes dragged on, he contemplated just drowning his sorrows and getting wrecked. Then finally, the two of them slipped back in to the room.

He banked the urge to run over and demand to know what had happened. He even rejected the idea of walking over to Lydia and dragging her away to explain, even though she was still – still, after nearly an hour – talking quietly to Meredith. Instead, he tried to keep up conversation with Lorcan – who amused himself by making stupid comments, knowing Hugo wasn't listening to a word of it – and tried to act like none of it bothered him. Finally, Lydia walked over.

"OK, first of all, listen. No interrupting, no commenting, no arguing." She said firmly, then smiled at Lorcan. "Can I talk to Hugo alone, please?"

"Course. You're gonna come over and tell me all the details when you're done here anyway, right?"

"Absolutely. Go wait with Lily." As Lorcan wondered away, smirking, Lydia fixed her attention back on Hugo. "Now, first of all, you're a complete idiot. For what happened last time, and for your little stunt earlier. Drag her into the hallway and tell her you miss her? God, Hugo. You know, I know you guys were never really together, and I know that the – whatever it was – thing you guys had didn't last long, but you still meant something to her. She liked you, and you...Well, if I didn't love you I'd be kicking you right now. Anyway, your little "I miss you" thing was...it's just you messing with her head. And that's not fair. Anyway, the good news? She's still a little hung up on you. Just a little, and she hates herself for it, and she's hoping it's mainly 'cause of the way it ended."

"That's good news?"

"What did I say? Just listen. It _is_ good news, because it means you've still got a chance. Bad news? It's a little chance, and she's not going to just fall into your arms when you shoot that stupid grin at her. You've got to do things differently this time. You've got to convince her -"

"How?"

"Again with the interruptions. I'll help you, OK? But mostly, it's got to be real, and it's got to come from you. If you're not willing to put in the effort, Hugo, then just walk away. Last time, all she needed was for you to tell her you wanted her. This time she needs more than that." She paused, bit her bottom lip and struggled through an obvious internal debate. "Do you know, when you just walked away from her, like cut off all contact out of nowhere and started ignoring her, her thought process was that she wasn't good enough for you. That's why it's not going to be easy, Hugo. So if you want her, put some damn effort into it."

He nodded, feeling – just as she'd intended – ashamed. "I will. Thanks, Lydia. Really."

"Anytime. Go get her."

-_Two Weeks Later-_

They were sat in his kitchen, sipping the tea he'd made – with some awkwardness – and she was watching him warily. He'd done his best over the past two weeks, seeing her as much as she'd allowed, trying to be nice to her, to charm her, to show her he was sorry, and that he was serious this time. It just didn't seem to be making much of an impact. He was mentally flipping through the tips Lydia and Lily had given him, when she finally spoke.

"I don't know how to deal with this." Meredith said finally. "I don't know what you want, what you're expecting from me."

"What do you want?" Hugo asked carefully.

"I don't know that, either. Hugo, where do we stand? Are you wanting us to be – to be together, like a couple, or are you just...I don't know, I mean, are you just after sex or something?"

He choked on his tea, and stared at her. "God, Meredith. No. Um, I'm not."

"OK, well, good. But what do you want?"

"I...I want to be with you. A couple, like you said. Look, Meredith, I'm trying, OK? But I know that you don't trust me, after last time, and I know that you're still...not happy with me." He paused cautiously at that point, but she didn't start shouting. "But I'm trying. Tell me what to do, Meredith, or what to say. Tell me, and I'll say it."

She looked at him for a long moment, and he had the uncomfortable sensation that he'd said the wrong thing. But she nodded.

"Tell me...you miss me, that you think about me all the time." She said calmly. "Tell me that you regret what happened with us, that letting me go was the biggest mistake of your life." He shifted, ever so slightly, when her voice rose slightly. "Tell me that I mean _something _to you. Tell me that your life just _sucks_ without me in it, and you'd do anything to get me back. Tell me you'll be the boy you were that night, that you'll be the best you possibly can for me. Tell me that you'll always be there when I need you, tell me that you'll protect me and respect me and adore me. But God, Hugo, don't you dare tell me a word of it if you don't mean it."

He'd known he'd hurt her, and angered her, and he'd known that she was still holding some of that against him. He'd known that she didn't trust him, and that he'd have to work to earn it back. But he hadn't realised just how deep all of that ran until he'd watched her eyes while she'd spoken to him. Not only seeking reassurance, but daring him to deny it all and walk away from her.

"Meredith, I've told you already that I miss you. I do. And I _do _think about you all the time. " He spoke carefully, well aware of how quickly things could go wrong if he said the wrong thing. "You know I regret what happened last time – what I made happen last time – and yeah, it was a mistake. A big one. Maybe the biggest of my life – so far, anyway. You matter to me, OK, and having you back in my life is – well, it's probably more than I deserve. You know I'll do anything to get you back. I won't tell you that I'll be the boy from that night, or that I'll be the best I can, because maybe I won't, not always, and I don't want to promise you something I might not be able to keep. But I'll try, Meredith. I'll try to be that guy for you, and I'll do my damn best to be there when you need me, to protect and respect you and adore you. I'll do my best, Meredith. That's all I can offer you."

She nodded slowly. "You hurt me. I know it seems stupid, like I'm over-reacting. I took it too hard, I know. I have...issues, OK, and they're mine to worry about."

"What kind of issues?" He asked curiously, then flushed. "Ah, if you don't want to tell me -"

She shrugged. "My "father" left my mum when she was eight months pregnant with me. He's never come back. Never been in contact, never checked in, never sent a birthday card. He just told her it wasn't working, he didn't want to be a dad, and wished her good luck. Point is, I've got issues. You might be better off without me. I'm probably too much work."

"I don't care how much work you are. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm really, really sorry."

She nodded. "I know. OK, I'll let it go. I'll stop...punishing you or whatever for it. We'll put it behind us. Let's go somewhere. Out somewhere."

"You want to go out?"

"Yeah. I made us go all serious there. I've made this thing too serious I guess. It's not really the way relationships are supposed to start it is? All intense and angry and with emotional little speeches. So let's go out, let's have fun. Come on."

He grinned at her, and nodded. "Let's go."


	148. Knowing

**Very short, partly because there wasn't much to say, and partly because it's another one I wrote at work and couldn't really concentrate. Been, sadly, blocked a lot lately, so this is the best I could come up with.**

**On a happier note, wow at the amount of reviews. Seriously, thank you all, you have no idea how much reviews mean.**

**148. Knowing**

He knew her.

She might've been a little dirtier than he'd ever seen her, with her long hair tangled and greasy, and she might've been lacking some of her usual spark – replaced by a tired wariness as she looked at him – but she was definitely Luna Lovegood.

No one had even told him. No one had mentioned that their new "guest" (as his mother was calling them, with her face twisted in discomfort) was a girl he'd gone to school with.

Draco swallowed, hard, and tried to avoid eye contact. Still, as he quickly unloaded the food he'd been ordered to bring down, his gaze flicked to her more than once. She looked back at him with recognition, and he flushed guiltily.

He _knew_ her. Properly knew her, not like Ollivander, who he'd met once. He'd seen her a thousand times, spoken to her – cruelly, yes, but he'd still spoken to her – eaten and slept and learned in the same building as she had. He backed away, appalled at the whole thing. Even as he hovered by the door – wondering if he should speak – she turned away from him, and, whispering, pulled Ollivander closer to the food.

She was just a kid. The thought struck him as he watched her – she was a year younger than him. And seemed – even here, in these horrific circumstances – so much younger, so much more innocent. Just a kid, but they'd kidnapped her, and stuck her down here. They'd made her a prisoner.

Feeling bile rise in his throat at the sight of the dirtied, exhausted girl sharing out the food, he turned and fled.

"Mother." He found her in one of the rooms upstairs, as he'd known he would. The little parlor was very feminine, very fussy, and very avoided by Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Therefore, it was often where Narissa was found.

Draco was over the burning anger at being shoved aside in his own house, having certain rooms off-limits and others that he daren't enter, having nowhere to escape to, nowhere that was his. That burning anger had been swallowed by the fear of it all.

Narcissa looked up from the book she'd been trying to read, then straightened at the sight of her son's face. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Did you know who they've got down there? Their newest prisoner?"

"Draco -"

"I go to school with her, Mother. She's in the year below me. I don't think she's even of age yet."

Narcissa sighed, and closed her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them, of course, the world was still there.

"The Dark Lord sees it necessary to keep her here, regardless of her age, Draco."

"And that makes it OK? Because he says so? Because she's done something stupid, something small to offend him, it makes it OK?"

"Of course not. But it means there's nothing I can do about it, Draco. Do you think I'd allow a child to be kept prisoner under my roof, if I had a choice in the matter? There's no choice. There's nothing I can do." Because she closed her eyes again, looked exhausted, Draco turned and left the room, feeling incredibly sick.

He should have snuck back down there and set her free. He should have protested, insisted, that she be allowed to go. He should have done _something_.

Instead, he did nothing, just lay awake at night, disgusted by the things he knew.


	149. Four Couples

**Been sadly blocked lately, so this is the best I could come up with. Sort of inspired by a song by Taking Back Sunday, called Everything Must Go. Some of the dialog from the first section is based on some of those lyrics, and the rest just went from there. Probably doesn't make much sense to anyone who'd heard the song, but, well, it worked for me.**

**The working title was Three Couples That Made It and One That Didn't, but it seemed a little too long.**

**149. Four Couples**

She'd finally hit breaking point.

"I can't do this." Lily said quietly, perched on the chair arm. "I can't _do_ this anymore, Scorpius."

"It's just for a few more weeks, Lily. I told you, there's so many job cuts, people all around me are losing their careers – I need to prove that I'm worth keeping on, otherwise I'm one of them."

"And what about your family? Are you willing to lose us?" Her voice was quiet, dangerously so.

"What? Of course not. Lily, I need to do this -"

"And I need you here. I need my husband here with me, our son needs his father. You're never here."

"It's not as bad as you make it sound." Scorpius replied, trying to keep his voice even. She wouldn't understand. How could she? "I am here. I'm only working a little extra, and it's only for a little while -"

"Its been more than a month now, and you're staying later and later every night. I'm _tired_, Scorpius, I'm so tired all the time. The baby keeps me up half the night, and then you're not here to help me with him. We barely see each other."

"It's just for a little while, Lily. I'm doing this for us."

"For _us_? No, Scorpius, you're doing this for yourself. You're still proving to everyone at your work, and to yourself, that you're good enough. And that's fine, OK, I understand that, I _support_ that if it's what you need. But not like this. Not to the point that this is the first conversation we've had in a week that lasted more than two sentences, not to the point that I'm so tired I actually shouted at Colby earlier, just shouted at him to be quiet. He's just a baby, just a few months old, and I shouted at him." Tears glimmered in her eyes, but were quickly fought back.

"I..."

"You don't get it. I'm the one that gets up with him at night, and then I deal with him all day. When you finally get home, you pretty much eat and then go to bed. I need a break, Scorpius, I need a damn break every once in a while, and I need my husband. We can't carry on like this, OK – I won't. If you love work so much, go live there. You practically are anyway."

He stared at her for a long moment, and she was scared – for just a second, she was down-to-the-bone scared – that he'd turned away, and walk. Leave her, leave their son, leave their home.

"I...this isn't right." Scorpius said. "This isn't _us._"

"I know." Lily said miserably. She leaned against the living room doorway and looked at him. "I just...Do you remember the first night we spent here, in this house? We just had a bed, and that hand-me-down sofa, and no other furniture. We'd spent all day decorating."

"We'd moved in everything I owned, all of my things, and most of yours. There were just boxes everywhere." Scorpius murmured.

"And that old wireless you'd brought from home." Lily added.

"You were wearing one of my old shirts." Scorpius remembered. "We got pizza at midnight."

"Everything felt so perfect, so amazing."

"I was so proud of it. Of you."

"Of me?"

"You were eighteen, Lily, just a few months out of school. But there you were, wearing my ring, building our future. Fearless."

"I never doubted us. It was like me and you against the world. People thought we were too young, that we wouldn't last. But I sat there, in your old shirt, eating pizza, wearing the engagement ring you'd given me, and I knew we would make it. I was just so content, and I knew that nothing could stop me feeling that way. I was so desperately in love with you, so filled with wonder that you felt the same way. I didn't think that would ever change."

"Has it?" He asked, and was terrified of the answer.

"I don't know. Has it? I still feel the same way I did about you, Scorpius, I don't think that will ever change. But I don't feel like I did that first night here, so content and thrilled. I don't feel like you feel the same way about me."

"Of course I do."

"Then why are you never here? It's one thing to work a little harder to try to secure your job, but this is too extreme. You're always there, and I'm here, alone with your son. Damn it Scorpius, you wanted a family. You told me that there was nothing – _nothing –_ you wanted more than a family with me. So I gave you a son. He's not even six months old, and you've already grown bored of him? Of me?"

Couldn't he see it? Couldn't he see that he was ripping her apart with his careless indifference and his constant absence?

"I'm not bored of either of you." He replied, appalled. "Lily, you know that's not what this is about."

"And you've proved over and over that you're a great worker. Moving into the office isn't going to make a difference. Last time, when you wanted that promotion, I thought it would never be that bad again, that you'd gotten it all out of your system, and I'd never have to wonder again if you still loved me. But here we are again, and this time it's worse."

"You don't get it, do you? I'm a Malfoy -"

"And so am I, so is our son."

"It's not the same. You're still Lily Potter -"

"_Potter-Malfoy_." She snapped.

"You're still a Potter, and our son is still half Potter. I'm a Malfoy -"

"You're half Greengrass." She cried, throwing up her hands. "In fact, if you want to play it that way, you're only a tiny bit Malfoy, and a tiny bit Greengrass, and a tiny bit Black, and whatever other names have married into your family for the last few centuries. Like I'm Potter, and Weasley, and Evans, and Prewitt – they're just names, Scorpius. Names and DNA, nothing more."

"My father, my grandfather, were Death Eaters, Lily. I carry that with me, and everyone sees it -"

"No. You see it, and you struggle with it. And I get it, I get that you still carry around the feeling that you're less than everyone else because of it. But you're not, Scorpius. You're a father now, you need to let go of that. The people in your office aren't going to look at you, see Death Eater spawn, and sack you on the spot. And if there were, you moving into the place isn't going to change it. You've proved yourself at that place over and over, you've got friends and respect there. When are you going to accept that?"

"You know what it was like for me." He said quietly. "You were there, you saw much more than I wanted you to. I want more than that for Colby."

"You've already given him more." She said, her voice gentle because she did understand, and she still ached for the bullied boy he'd been. "No one is going to treat him the way they did you, no one is going to look down on him. You're better than your father, your grandfather, and you don't have to prove it to anyone. Except maybe yourself."

"Lily -"

"I know you think that we need you to have this job, this career, that we need you to make yourself into something Colby can be proud of. But we don't. What we need, Scorpius, is to have you here. Colby needs his father, and I damn sure need you. I can't carry on like this, OK, with you gone all the time and me alone with Colby. I need to remember that I'm not just his mother, I'm an actual person. I'm still that girl that sat on an old sofa and ate pizza at midnight and felt like everything was right with the world. I can't be the girl who constantly worries her husband doesn't want her, or their son. I won't be that girl, and I won't put Colby through that. Scorpius...I hate to do this, OK, I do, but I swear, you either cut down your hours to those of a normal human being, or you leave this house. I'm not going to keep pretending that everything's OK."

"Lily." He was scared. He was really scared. They'd had arguments, they'd once gone three days without speaking to each other, but they'd never come this close to breaking.

"I'll fight for us." She murmured. When he saw the tears glimmering in her eyes, he felt like a monster. "I'll fight to the death for this marriage, for this family. But I won't do it alone, Scorpius."

He stared at her for a long moment, faced with everything he could lose. Then slowly, he nodded. "OK. OK." It wasn't the ultimatum, the threat, or the anger that did it. It was the raw pain in her eyes, and exhaustion that lingered around her face.

He never could stand hurting her.

"If I lost this job, I wouldn't be able to support us."

"We've got money saved. We'll handle it. But our marriage is falling apart, Scorpius, and you can't see it. I told you, I'll fight for us, because I love you, and I believe in us. But I can't hold this family together on my own. You need to fight, too."

"OK. OK. He could, now, he could see the rapidly expanding cracks, and they scared him more than anything. "I...Let's talk about this, OK, we'll sit down, and we'll talk about it properly. It's nearly midnight. How about I order pizza?"

She laughed weakly. "It'll take more than midnight pizza to fix us."

"I know. But it's a start. Lily..." He didn't want to ask, he really didn't, but he needed to know. "Do you...do you still believe we can make it?"

"Hell yeah." She replied, without hesitation, and lightened his heart.

"I won't give up on us." He promised her quietly. "Never."

* * *

"George. George, goddamn it, you promised." Immensely disappointed, Angelina tugged the empty bottle from the fiancé's hand. He barely noticed, just looked up at her blearily.

"You promised." She said again.

"'S Christmas." George slurred.

"I know. Do you think Fred would want you getting like this? Do you think he'd be happy to see you like this?"

"He's not here, is he? Doesn't matter."

Angelina sighed. Though it had been a year and a half, and George often seemed largely OK, Christmas was never going to be easy.

"What do you expect me to do, George? You gave me this ring, and in a little while we'll be promising our lives to each other. Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life watching you get trashed when things get difficult? I can't do that, George. I can't."

"Don't, then. Leave. You'd prob'ly rather be with him anyway." He rolled his head to one side, closed his eyes as if to go to sleep. And was jerked abruptly back into consciousness by her slap.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare bring that up – again – damn it George, how many times are we gonna have this argument? Fred and I, we just went to the damn Yule Ball together. And realised we were more like brother and sister than anything else. That's all, that's it, and now I'm in love with you. I'm so stupidly in love with you, that even when you're being such a bastard, I'm not going to leave you. Sleep it off, George, and we'll argue about this in the morning." Leaving him, she stormed out with tears in her eyes he was too drunk to see.

Morning brought a great hangover and great shame. George spent half an hour trying to make himself fall back asleep, both to escape the feeling of sickness, the headache, and having to face his fiancé.

He rolled out of bed only when overwhelmed by a sudden certainty he was going to be sick. Which he was. Slumped miserably on the bathroom floor, he wondered if he could just curl up on the cold tiles and spend the rest of the day here.

"Here." Angelina appeared from nowhere, offering a glass of water. As he sipped, she sat down opposite him, leaning against the bath.

"Sorry." He murmured finally, avoiding her gaze. "I know I promised you I wouldn't do that. I just...I started drinking, fully intended to stop before I got drunk. And then I just stopped caring."

"I know. But it scares me when you stop caring. You need to stop this. On the bad days, you need to avoid the bottle, not drown yourself in it."

"I know."

She nodded, and didn't speak for a long moment. When she did speak, it was with a sigh. "Do you remember what you said to me?"

"Yeah. I was kinda hoping you didn't."

"Did you mean it?"

"No. No, of course not. I was just...I was just trying to hurt you. Because I was hurt. It was stupid, and I'm sorry."

"We're getting married soon, George. I don't know if we can do that if you're going to get drunk whenever you're struggling, and throw Fred in my face when you're hurting. There was nothing there, you know damn well there was nothing there, but friendship, yet you use him to hurt me."

"He hurt me. He left, he _died_ and he hurt me. And when I get like I got last night...I hate him for it, and I hate everyone around me."

"Then stop getting into that state, George. When you're hurting, and you're struggling, come to me. Lean on me, OK, because that's what marriage is about. Supporting each other through the bad times. You don't have to struggle alone. But if you keep pushing me, George, I'll walk. And once you've pushed me away, I promise you, I won't come crawling back."

"I know. I'm sorry, Angel. I really am. It's no excuse, but it's just the holidays."

"I know it is. You've been doing great for months. All I'm asking is that next time you feel as low as you did last night, you come to me instead of the bottle."

"I will."

"OK." She looked at his face for a long moment, and whatever she found there visibly reassured her. "OK."

* * *

"Lily? Honey, are you crying?" James Potter had always felt awkward around crying women. When it was the woman he loved crying silently, he felt even more awkward, and a little more panicky.

"No." She brushed away the tears quickly, mortified at being caught.

"Lily. C'mon, tell me what's wrong."

She nearly tossed out another denial, but changed her mind, and confessed. "Are we doing the wrong thing?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are we doing the wrong thing, getting married now? There's a war going on, and people are dying, and we could be next. Are we crazy, thinking about marriage?"

"No. If I'm going to die in this war, Lily, I'm going to be married to you first."

"That doesn't make me feel better. We were so stupid, falling in love while this was going on. What the hell were we thinking?"

"We were thinking," James said, slowly and deliberately, "that our lives shouldn't be put on hold because there's a war going on. We were thinking that we love each other, and nothing can change that, not even crazy evil wizards."

She'd hurt him, Lily realised abruptly. Pissed him off, too, but mostly hurt him. And, playing it back in her head, she understood why. "I'm sorry." She said quietly, forcing herself to be calm. "I didn't mean...I'm sorry, James, I was just being stupid. The stress..." She managed a weak laugh. "I used to think women were exaggerating when they talked of the stress of planning a wedding – how hard can it be, right? But it's not as simple as it looks, and with the war going on, all this stuff..."

"That's all it was? Just the stress of it? You're not having doubts about – about us?"

"No." And she wasn't, not really. "I just...I worry that it's not the right time. That something's going to happen, and – and I'm scared, James. I'm so scared, all the damn time, it's driving me crazy."

He nodded, and looked at her for a long moment while she tried to work out what he was thinking.

"Come on. Let's go to the beach."

"Wha...Excuse me?"

"Pick a beach, and we'll go spend the rest of the day there. We'll forget all about the war, and Voldemort, and magic. I'll even buy you an ice cream."

"An ice...James, we can't pretend none of this is happening."

"Why not? You always said you loved going to the beach when you were a kid. Let's go. Put all of this aside, just for one afternoon, and be muggles."

"Ah..." It was crazy, she thought. Crazy and stupid and reckless.

And when was the last time she'd done something crazy and stupid and reckless?

"OK. But I want a big ice cream."

* * *

"I love you." He said it quickly, and Gellert blinked in surprise before grinning, hugely, and replying, "I love you too."

"I love you." He said it nervously, and Gellert looked surprised, then horrified. Without a word, he scrambled to his feet, and backed away. Then he ran.

"I love you." He said carefully, hesistantly. Gellert stared at him for a long moment.

"Oh." He said finally. "Um, Albus, you're very important to me – you're my best friend. But, but I..."

Albus opened his eyes, and sighed. Those were the three main possibilities, he figured. Of course, there were a thousand different variations of them, but those were the three main possibilities.

And every single one of them terrified him.

But he was a brave boy – man, he had to remember he was a man now, with all the struggles and responsibilities that came with it – and he knew that he had to face up to this, to confess his feeling to Gellert, and deal with the consequences.

But wasn't it wrong? To feel this way, for another man, for a friend? It was forbidden, unheard of, and most likely would disgust Gellert. Surely he'd be better keeping it to himself, burying it, denying it?

But, then, sometimes Gellert would smile at him, this certain smile, or eyes tinged with wistfulness, or look at him for such a long time. Sometimes he seemed to be touching Albus more often than necessary – just a tap on his hand or knee to get his attention, a hand on his arm while he spoke to him. Things he said, or the way he said them didn't seem to be motivated by simple friendship...

And it gave Albus hope. A terrible, terrified hope that this illicit love could be reciprocated, that relationship that both thrilled and frightened him could be a reality.

So he had to do it. He had to just go ahead with it, risk everything, because it was driving him crazy thinking about it. And he was starting to think that maybe that relationship could be amazing, if only he had the guts to try to develop it.

He snuck a glance over at Gellert, his brilliant mind for once bewildered.

How should he do it? Slowly and carefully, explaining himself fully? Quickly, blurting it out before he could chicken out? Calmly and clearly, keeping it simple?

He was still trying to figure it out when the fight broke out.

A mess of confusion, of torn loyalties, of anger and fear and disbelief, and all thoughts of confessing forbidden love left his head.

And then, after what seemed like seconds, just a couple of _seconds_ he wasn't thinking about anything. He was simply staring, horror-struck, at his little sister, dead.

It was over a week later that he finally let himself think of Gellert, and, to his immense pain and guilt, realised that the love he'd been about to confess still lived inside him, despite it all. And that was when he finally broke down in tears, sobbing for the sister he'd lost, the brother who was so full of grief and anger and hate for him, and for the love that shouldn't be, the relationship that never was.


	150. Home and Connections

**Been a little while, sorry. I'd like to be able to update every other day like I used to, but sadly can't. Ooh, but, I have handed in my notice at work, and once I finish (three weeks) I'll have a few weeks before I start Uni, so hopefully I'll be able to post some stuff them. Once at Uni, we'll have to see how my schedule works.**

**Thanks, of course, for reviews.**

**150. Home and Connections**

She went with him to Godric's Hollow. He wasn't sure why he'd asked her to, when he'd been set on going alone. He wasn't sure why she'd agreed, when it was fast reaching the first anniversary and the days were getting difficult. But she was by his side, her hand linked with his, silent because neither of them could think of anything to say.

It was slightly different than last time, but not overtly. No snow – and no Hermione pressed into his side to make sure the invisibility cloak covered them both – and no Christmas decorations. But the buildings were the same, the streets. It was, he mused, a quiet, lovely place that stayed steady.

"It's sweet." Ginny said finally. "It's a sweet place. Like a storybook."

"Yeah." He remembered the way. Maybe he always would. But even after a year, he didn't have to hesitate once while he walked towards what had been his first, forgotten, home.

Ginny made a sound at the sight of it, like a gasp quickly stifled. And then, because she knew he was seeing it all over again, she clutched his hand a little tighter.

She had been miserable. It was coming so close to the anniversary, and her nightmares were back with a vengeance. A full month had slipped by without a single one, and then, all of a sudden, they came three nights in a row. She'd spent most of the night before sat in the garden in the light rain, unable to sleep. To make things worse, her knee was aching like a bitch. She'd sprained it in that last battle, and though it had healed it still flared up from time to time, a sick echo of what had been.

But standing here, at the wreckage of what had been a nice family home, in a lovely sleepy village, all her worries were forgotten. She saw it. The young couple – only a few years older than herself – experienced but lulled into a sense of safety. The panic, the horror, when that illusion was shattered. James Potter, frantically rushing to meet the evil on the doorstep, forgetting to protect himself in his haste to save his wife and child. No regret in his eyes when he died for them. The pretty young mother with tears on her face as she begged for her child to be spared, and the fear and courage as she sacrificed herself. The sobbing baby, too young to understand he was now an orphan, and the broken wizard who had thought himself invincible. The wreckage of the house seemed to whisper the story to her, not in Harry's voice, though he was the one who'd told her the details, but in quiet pictures.

She was hit, suddenly, by the photograph she'd seen of Harry's parents. James Potter, his face lit with amusement, a casual arm affectionately resting on his pretty, smiling wife's shoulders. Happy, and vibrant, and _alive_.

"D'you think I'd've grown up here, if they'd lived? Or would they have moved somewhere bigger, somewhere...busier?"

"I don't know." Ginny replied quietly. "It would've been a nice place to grow up."

"Yeah."

He'd hoped – and he felt pathetic and embarrassed admitting it to himself now – that he would find a sense of home here. The war was done, there was no fear to preoccupy him. So he'd hoped that, looking at this place which had been his home, in a forgotten life, would hold some ties for him.

There were none. He felt no connection to the house where he had lived his first year, where he had lost his parents and the future he could have had. He felt no connection, either, to the sleepy little village where muggles lived, unaware of the magical history around them, and where witches and wizards kept monuments and tributes to himself and his parents.

"Let's go, Ginny." He said, and tugged her hand. With a nod, she went with him. They went to the graveyard, left flowers for his parents. And Ginny found herself swallowing back tears as they walked away. The tragedy of it was enormous.

"Do you think you'll come back here? To visit, or to – to live?"

"No. I mean, maybe to visit. Maybe. But I won't ever live here."

Because, despite the storybook beauty of it, and the tragic pull of the house, she'd felt no connection to the place either, she only nodded. He wouldn't make a home here, and since she was finally starting to believe they could have a life together, that meant she wouldn't have to, either.

"It's good that you came." Ginny murmured.

"Yeah." But there was no connection for him, no home for him here.

(In fact, when they did set up home together, it was the cliffs that drew both of them, and a spacious old house that held that connection.)


	151. Recovery

**Look, we're now officially over one hundred and fifty chapters. So big, big thanks to anyone still reading this, I owe you lots for putting up with me. This one's extremely short and not too sweet, but I'll try harder next time.**

**151. Recovery**

He was happy. He had three beautiful children, an amazing wife, a lovely home. His family was safe and secure. His career was going good and financially, they were mostly doing well. He was content; life was good.

There was absolutely no reason to be stood at the back door, staring out into the dark garden, listening to the sounds the sea made, and feeling thoroughly miserable.

Except, of course, the date. In forty-five minutes, it would be the second of May. And while that would mean his eldest daughter's birthday, it would also mean much, much more.

The anniversary of his brother's death. The anniversary of the war ending. The anniversary of the night that still haunted his dreams from time to time.

Bill dragged a hand down his exhausted face, and tried not to remember. The memories flooded him anyway, of course. The battle. The sickening sounds and sights and smells of it. The panic, because so many people he loved were elsewhere in the castle, fighting for their lives.

The feel of a curse whizzing past him, and Fleur choking out jinxes and curses at the Death Eater who'd almost killed him, angry and relieved and panicked. The horror of watching a jinx catch Fleur's arm, and his panicked rush to stop it. The knowledge that he and Fleur were only a dangerous distraction to each other, fighting side by side, but unwilling to part ways. The thrill – sick, really, but a thrill all the same – of fighting back-to-back with his wife and taking out half a dozen Death Eaters. The jolt it brought each time a section of wall or ceiling collapsed. The fear, the absolute blood-chilling fear when he'd seen Ginny, coated in dust and blood, crouched low and limping down the corridor, wand clutched tightly in hands that shook.

God. She'd been sixteen, he thought, just a kid. A kid who'd seen and done far too much. A kid who'd been exhausted and hysterical, running on a sprained knee and bleeding from the shoulder, her clothes torn with bruises already forming on her pale skin. That desperate rush to get her away from the battle, to calm her and heal her best he could. He lifted the pain from her knee, he remembered, but he hadn't been able to fix the sprain; his jumbled mind couldn't find the right spell. He'd offered, after, but she'd quietly declined, and he hadn't wanted to push her. Not when she looked so young and lost and broken. He didn't think he'd ever forget that, the way she'd looked then, and for all those weeks after. Or the way that it made him feel like he'd failed. He hadn't protected her, nor Fred, so what kind of big brother was her?

Just like he'd never forget walking into the Great Hall with her beside him, seeing Percy, and feeling that first rush of relief; and then the cold, dull horror when he'd seen what Percy was stood over; a pair of lifeless legs. And the feeling, the indescribable combination of grief and horror and disbelief and raw, animal pain, at seeing his little brother laid carefully on the floor, so clearly dead.

He remembered sinking to his knees, and staring, just staring, until Fleur crouched beside him, and wrapped her arms around him. He remembered turning to her, and hugging her, tight, hard, desperate. He remembered watching each of his family members see the same sight, suffer the same pain.

And after. He remembered Ron's attempts to be strong, and the way he'd sometimes sit in silence, clutching Hermione's hand and struggling with it all. He remembered Ginny standing outside in the rain, getting angry when anyone checked on her, claiming that she needed to be left alone, to deal with everything her own way. He remembered Charlie's guilt at not being there until the final act, and Percy's guilt at his abandonment. He remembered George – oh, God, George – and how _different_ he'd been for so long.

Her remembered his parents, how shattered they were.

Did you ever really recover from such things? All these years later, they seemed all seemed happy enough, they all seemed whole and headed. But could they ever be?

Maybe, Bill thought as the clock ticked closer and closer to the anniversary of the worst day of his life, maybe they were just doing a really good impression of having recovered.

Maybe there was no recovery, not really, not from this.

He stayed where he was, at the back door drowning in memories, until his watch clicked midnight.


	152. Surprises

**A little lighter than the last one. I know my Jigsaw Pieces are quite often not too happy, but I just write what comes to me. **

**152. Surprises**

"I'm marrying Ron." It burst out of her in a sob, her voice shaking as much as her hands were. Ginny's head snapped up, surprise on her face, which was quickly replaced by a grin.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Oh, God." Hermione looked down at her hand, where a diamond glinted in the light. Her expression was stunned. Her chair scraping loudly against the floor, Ginny jumped to her feet and launched herself at Hermione, grabbing her in a tight hug. "I'm marrying Ron. I'm _marrying_ him." It ended on a laugh, and she clung back to Ginny just as tightly.

"Congrats. God, Hermione." Laughing, Ginny drew back. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thank you. Thanks. I can't...it hasn't sunk in. I mean, it's _Ron_, I wasn't expecting this. I figured if he ever even thought about marriage, it would be way, way down the line."

"He loves you. Anyone can see it." Ginny said. To her shock, Hermione sat down quickly, and burst into tears.

"Oh. Oh, Hermione, don't cry." A little panicked, Ginny sat down beside her. "What's wrong?"

"He loves me. And I love him. I never thought – I never thought we'd make it this far. And after everything – everything that's happened – he makes me happy, Ginny. Even when I'm mad at him, I love him and he makes me happy. But we're young, and he's the only boy I've ever loved, and what if it doesn't last?"

"What?"

"Couple's split up all the time. Marriages fail. What if ours does? I couldn't stand not loving him, having him not love me. I can't imagine my life without him in it."

"Honey, that's a good thing. You start a marriage like that, it's chances of failing have got to be smaller, right?"

"I know. I'm being stupid. I can't help it. It's not even happiness, it's more, it's something _other_. I can't describe it. Does that make sense?"

"Course it does. We all know about indescribable emotions." Fear that was so much more than fear, pain that couldn't be classified simply as pain, anger and grief and horror that couldn't been explained by mere words.

"I never knew I could feel like this. At – at the worst times, I never thought we'd be like this...Look at us, Ginny. I'm getting married." She laughed again, and Ginny felt relieved as the tears dried.

"I can't think of anyone I'd rather have as my sister-in-law." Ginny replied sincerely.

"Thank you. Ginny – I love you. You're my best friend. I mean, there's Harry and Ron, too, but it's different, you're a girl. It's different. I don't know what it's like to have a sister, but I figure you're the closest thing I'll ever have to one."

For a moment, Ginny just looked at her, impossibly touched. "Same goes. You know it does. I wouldn't have – after Fred died, I wouldn't have gotten through it without you. I love you, too. And you're going to make a fantastic wife to Ron. Don't worry about it falling apart, not lasting, because it will. You just have to look at the two of you to know it'll last, and it'll be great."

"You think?"

"I know. You're too smart to really worry that it's not going to work out."

"I'd never have thought...even when I first realised I liked him, as more than just a friend, I didn't think we'd work. I didn't think I could ever love him like I do."

"Nice to be surprised every now and then, isn't it?"

"Very. I need to go, I need to tell Luna. She's next on my list. You know, I never thought me and her could be friends, but -"

"She's great, isn't she?"

"Yeah. She is. I'm glad we have her. OK. I'm gonna go before I start sobbing all over you again."


	153. Illusions

**Meant to post this last week, and completely forgot about it. Bright side, updated three days in a row. **

**Thank you for the reviews, it's been great when I check my emails at work and see a lovely review, cheers me up.**

**153. Illusions**

Narcissa was half asleep when she padded into the living room, barefoot and blissfully casual. She had the house to herself. Bella had moved out, her parents had left early. She was free, for a few glorious hours, completely free. She hadn't bothered dressing, but was still in her pjs, her hair a mess. She was going to eat breakfast in the living room, or possibly her bedroom. None of the house elves would tell her parents. She could just lazy around, put her feet up on her mother's antique coffee table, dance around the kitchen playing the old wireless. She could sunbathe in the garden. For just a few blissful hours, she would live the illusion of freedom.

Grinning, she flopped down onto the sofa, propped bare feet on that coffee table, thinking idly that she could run around the house naked if she so chose, and no one could stop her. Then she screamed.

"Mother!" Hurriedly moving her feet, and sitting up straighter, she stared in horror at the figure in a chair across the room. Her mother was a tiny women, and pale and quiet, the kind of person who often faded into the background. Still, to not notice her, to actually throw herself onto the sofa – barefoot and in pyjamas! – was a step too far. "I thought – I thought you and father were going out, early, this morning -" She swallowed, and glanced around the room, just in case her father was hiding in some corner. He would be horrified and disgusted, she thought. It was far from proper to be swanning around the house in bedwear. She could practically hear the lecture. What if someone important guest had been here? What did she think she was, a common mudblood? Have some dignity. Ect ect ect.

"Your father left. I had a headache. I stayed behind." Her mother's voice was distracted, and she didn't look up from the letter she was holding. Seeing her chance, Narcissa stood, slowly.

"Oh. Right. Ah, I'll be back in just a moment." She dashed from the room, up the stairs, and dressed and groomed herself as quickly as she could. Stupid, she told herself bitterly, to think she could actually treat the house like a home for once. To eat a meal outside of the painfully formal dining room, to wonder around in her most casual clothes, rather than being immaculately dressed. So, so stupid.

When she re-entered the living room, every inch the dutiful daughter, the pure-blood elite, her mother was still in the same position, staring at the same letter. "Mother?" Narcissa sat back down slowly, and leaned forward. "Is something wrong?"

"I...This letter, it's from Andromeda."

Narcissa's heart missed a beat. When it started back up, it was faster than normal. And a fearful hope started to build inside her – Andromeda was sorry, she'd realised her mistake, she'd left the mudblood and wanted to come home – as she waited. When her mother said nothing, she bit back an impatient remark, and forced herself to sound calm. "What does it say?"

"She..." Her mother closed her eyes. "Andromeda has had a child."

The hope was shoved roughly aside by shock. "She's what?"

"She's had a child. A daughter. A week ago." She opened her eyes, finally looked at her youngest daughter. "She's written that she wanted us to know, that she hopes we can find it in ourselves to forgive her, for the baby's sake, be a part of her life. She doesn't apologise."

Why would she, Narcissa thought, when she was with someone who loved her, who accepted her? Why would she apologise when she'd done what she'd done for love?

But she kept her face impassive.

"She's sent pictures." Her mother murmured. Reaching into the envelope, she took out a stack. Laying the letter down, she flicked through the pictures, and unreadable expression on her face. Too curious to stop herself, Narcissa left her seat and crouched on the floor beside her mother. Silently, her mother passed her the pictures, one by one.

The baby was tiny. She hadn't known anything could be so _small_. How did it survive? It's eyes – her eyes – her big and bright and grey. Andromeda's eye. Black eyes.

"She's so pretty." Narcissa breathed. And, as that hope tried to slip back in, she looked up at her mother. "Are we – are you going to go see the baby?"

Her mother was staring at one of the pictures. And for a moment, just a moment, it seemed to Narcissa like she wanted to say yes. Then she dropped the picture as though it burned, and looked disdainfully at her daughter. "Of course not. You're well aware of the choices Andromeda has made. She is no longer a part of this family." There was something in her eyes that may have been regret, or hurt, or longing, but she was women well aware of her duties. "Burn the pictures, Narcissa, and the letter."

She flicked her wand towards the fireplace, so that large flames leapt into life, then rose, and left her youngest daughter crouched on the floor, still clutching the pictures of the niece she'd never know. With a sigh, Narcissa carried everything to the fireplace, sat crossed legged in front of the flames. And read the letter, quickly. "Nymphadora." She murmured, testing it out. The child was a metamorphmagus, too, Narcissa read, and wondered how amazing such a power was. And how thrilled and excited Andromeda and her mudblood were. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, she began to sort quickly through the pictures, regretfully tossing a few onto the flames. But she set aside one of the baby looking vividly alert and surprised, one of her looking amused – a slight smile, bright eyes – one of her sleeping, one of her looking at the camera with wonder and fascination, and one of her with Andromeda. Five out of the fifteen Andromeda had sent. Five of the pictures, she stacked together, folded the letter around them. Tossing the envelope in to burn, she fled from the room, guiltily clutching the rescued pictures.

Because she couldn't burn them. She couldn't pretend that Andromeda wasn't her sister, couldn't pretend that she didn't exist, or that the baby didn't. She'd live the illusion that was required of her, but she couldn't think they way they wanted her to. She was an auntie. She had a niece.

And if all she had to show for that was five pictures, then that would have to do.


	154. Heal

**Look, another update. Doubt this streak will last much longer, but it's nice while it does. Mainly because I was going through my fanfiction folder and found this, written and abandoned. I need to stop doing that. Anyway.**

**Almost like an epilogue, I guess, to my other Draco/Astoria chapters. **

**154. Heal**

He was a mess. Still, all these years after the war, he was a mess.

Not the mess he had been, of course. During the first half of the first year after the war, he had looked half-heartedly for a job before settling back to live off of the family gold. He found solace in drink – spending nights in smoky muggle pubs, sipping lager and losing himself in misery, or drinking in wizard pubs and drowning in the hate-filled looks of those around him. He had fights – short, drunken duels with wizards who despised him for his Death Eater status, and equally drunken fist fights with muggles who he'd offended, or who had simply drank too much and decided they didn't like his face. After a while, he filled some of those nights with women, as well as drink. He had no preference there, didn't discriminate at all. Muggle or witch, fat or thin, tall or short. He went home with women who were clearly well practiced with one-night stands, and with women who blushed in the morning, shocked at themselves.

During the second half of that first year, he went back to the newly repaired Hogwarts. Partly because his parents insisted he finish his education, and partly because he wanted to punish himself. And it was punishment; the memories of that night, the hate and disgust of his classmates. Finding some kind of comfort in the punishment – it relieved, if only slightly, if only temporarily – some of his guilt at his crimes. While he could find plenty of fights within the castle walls, alcohol and sex were limited, and without those to distract him, he fell into a pattern of self-harm, adding physical punishment to his routine. It was cleansing, purifying, he told himself. It was less than he deserved.

He was at Hogwarts for a month before the Christmas break; during the holidays he fell into his former pattern; drinking, fighting, sex. And then, back at Hogwarts, he swapped the drinking and sex for self harm. He believed he was helping himself, but looking back, he could see the spiral he was heading down.

It was during the next holidays, the Eater break, that the turning point came. He staggered out of a muggle pub, barely able to stand, and crashed into Ginny Weasley. Despite the alcohol, he remembered it clearly, the way she'd told him off, disgusted by his talk of wanting to die. She'd told him to live, because he was alive, when so many didn't get the chance. She'd made him promise, then she'd gotten him home. He'd never quite understand why she'd done so, and never quite feel comfortable with it. But he'd done what he'd said he would.

He could have, very easily, broken that promise, but he didn't. He relapsed, of course, because he wasn't strong enough to drag himself out of that spiral instantly. But he went back to Hogwarts without a hangover, and stopped sneaking bottles from the Hog's Head into his dorm room. Mostly. He stopped responding to taunts and insults, stopped triggering fights. Mostly.

The self harm was harder to kick. Who'd've thought he could give up booze and sex and fighting, but not slicing the knife across his skin? He'd finished Hogwarts before he managed to stop completely. And, as with the others, he relapsed occasionally.

He'd thought he was alright now. Certainly, he didn't lean on the distractions that he used to. He didn't have nightmares as often, nor did he have his bouts of depression so frequently. He wasn't the broken boy he'd been.

He had a way to go, of course, but he was doing well enough.

And then he met Astoria. He hadn't meant to fall in love with her, of course, could never have imagined she'd come to mean so much to him. He'd been intrigued by her, and when he'd gotten to know her, he'd been charmed by her. He'd seen her once, at Hogwarts, during those last months when he'd been piecing himself together. And seeing her again, later, he'd been hooked.

And then he'd pushed her away. Because he loved her, because he was scared for her.

Draco Malfoy was a man he never wanted anywhere near Astoria Greengrass.

If he'd been stronger, he'd have stuck to that. But he wasn't. He was weak and selfish and prepared to drag her down with him. Which meant, of course, that he would try his damn best to be the kind of man she deserved, give her the kind of life she deserved.

"I'm still a mess." He said it, this time, aloud. Astoria turned towards him, away from the large fireplace she'd been inspecting.

"Hmm?"

"I'm still a mess. You need to know that. I'm not what I was, once, but I'm still a mess. I'm still..."

"Broken?" Astoria supplied. "I know that, Draco, I see that. Maybe one day you'll forgive yourself for it. Why are we here?"

She didn't look afraid, Draco mused. He'd taken her to this big, empty old house, without giving her a reason. She probably ought to worry he'd kill her here. But she wasn't even nervous. She never had been afraid around him, and that was a miracle in itself.

"I just...you need to _know_. You need to know that I'll never be completely – completely -"

"Healed? Whole?"

"You're doing a better job of this speech than I am." Draco replied, then blew out a breath. "We'll go with that. Whole and healed. I'll never be that. I don't think I'll ever be rid of the nightmares, or the issues. I'll always be Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater. You need to know that."

"I do know that. I also know you were barely a man while you were a Death Eater, I know most of those issues come from regret, remorse, and I see, every day, how you struggle with that part of you that's still broke. I love you, Draco."

She said it so simply that his throat burned. "I love you. You saved me. Maybe others started it," he thought again of Ginny, of his mother's unwavering support, "but you saved me. So, so thank you. You need to know everything I am, to fully understand what I used to be. And you need to know that I love you, more than I ever knew possible, and that will never change. It never could. I've got something I need to ask you. You need to think about – about both of those things before you answer it. Don't say anything, just think about it, OK?"

"OK."

"I love you. I should, really, let you go, let you have a happy life without me. But I can't, so I'm just going to spend the rest of my life trying to be what you deserve, and give you what you deserve. For as long as you want me. I want to marry you, Astoria, and have a child with you, and a home with you. I've got – I've got a ring -" he fumbled the little box out of his pocket, but daren't open it. "And I thought, if you liked this house – I could buy it. It could be ours. If you don't like it, we'll find something else. Wherever you want. I'm willing to give on the child thing, too." He added, speaking fast, now, and a little panicked. "I mean, you'd be an amazing mother, and I'd like to have a kid with you, but we've never really talked about it, so if you – if you don't want kids, that's fine." Miserably awkward, he looked down at the ring box. "If you don't like the ring, we can get you something else. The details don't matter, as long as I'm with you." He flipped the box open, but she didn't look at it. She looked at his face.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes." There was laughter in her voice. "I'll marry you, I'll have a child with you, and a home. This house is perfect. We're definitely having a child – there's nothing I want more. Yes, Draco."

"Have you thought about it? All of it?" He couldn't afford the hope, because if it was shattered he might break completely.

"Of course I have. The answer's still yes. Yes!"

He crossed to her in two steps, lifted her and spun her around. He was talking – fast words that blurred together and made little sense, declarations of love, gratitude and promises, that he'd never be able to recall.

He was still a mess. He always would be. But she let him slide his ring onto her finger, she agreed to make this house into a home with him, and she was willing to give him a child. How could any man not be happy with all of that?

And, maybe, he thought as he kissed her, just maybe that broken part of him could heal a little, when he was with her.


	155. Guilt II

**This has taken me forever to complete. I started it months back, and have just added a little to it every now and then since. No idea why it took me so long, but I wish I could say it was worth the wait.**

**155. Guilt**

She resented it. God, it was hard to accept that, to admit it, even to herself. She resented the smiles that weren't quite real, the long, sad looks, the thoughts of tragedy and loss and grief that tainted the day.

It was her day. Or it should have been. Victoire closed her eyes and sighed a little, leaning her head rest against the cool wall in the empty hallway. What a way to celebrate her birthday. The presents had been there, of course, when she'd woken. And her parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, when they'd arrived, had given her hugs and wished her a happy birthday. But how could it be _happy_? They were all thinking of war, of battles and death.

And now, she had to head into the Great Hall, and listen to the familiar speeches about the war, the blood and sweat and death. She hated herself for resenting it, for wishing she'd been born just a few days later, or earlier. On a day that was hers and hers alone.

"C'mon." It was Teddy's voice, quiet in her ear, and Teddy's arms that slipped around her waist, bringing that familiar thrill. "It'll all be over in an hour or so."

She lowered one hand to his arm, but didn't move away from the wall. It was hard for him, too, she knew. The guilt of not remembering his parents, the wondering – what could have been, the life he could have had, if only they'd lived.

"It's OK." He added, quieter. "It's OK to hate it."

"It's selfish." She mumbled.

"No. It's normal. It's your birthday, Vee. It's normal to want people to notice that."

"It's never going to be my birthday, though, is it?" She finally turned to face him. "It'll always be the day the war ended, the day...all those people died. The day my uncle died, and...I just happened to be born that day. I hate it, and that's incredibly selfish."

"No." He pressed his mouth to hers. "It's incredibly normal. I'm sorry it hurts you, when they all look sad and -"

"Forget it. Let's go, before we miss the start of the ceremony." She took his hand as she pushed away from the wall, and clung to it like a lifeline, wishing the guilt away.

* * *

It was strange. It was so strange to see everyone this way. Even after all these years, even expecting it, it was strange. That light was gone from her Uncle George's eyes, while there was something almost haunted in her Aunt Ginny's, her Uncle Charlie was back in the country, would be for a week or so yet, but was somehow different to how he was at Christmas, her Uncle Percy had that _look_ he always got at this time of year, which she had only recently recognised as guilt, and her Uncle Ron seemed determined to concentrate on everyone else, until his wife stopped him with a hug, at which time he'd lower his head and just cling to her for a moment. Her grandparents still looked that way they always had on this day, and the way she imagined always would; the pain of losing a child, she figured, never really left.

As for her father...well, maybe she just didn't want to look close enough to pick out all the subtle ways he changed on this day. Maybe it was worse to see how the war, his brother's death, had affected the one man she adored the most in the world.

He looked over at the then, her dad, and managed a smile. His scarred face still held some of its former beauty, but Dominique had only ever known her father with the scars, and knew little difference, unless she looked at old pictures.

"Hiya, kid." He murmured when he reached her, and brushed a hand down her hair. "Bored?"

"No." She told him, truthfully. As strange and distressing at it was to see the people she loved this way, it was also fascinating. She filed away every detail, inspected it, analysed it. "Not bored at all."

And that, she thought guiltily, was absolutely the wrong way to feel.

* * *

Molly never felt comfortable on this day. In fact, she felt like a fraud.

People were sympathetic. Towards her. And what could she do but smile and thank them? How could she possibly explain that she didn't deserve it? She'd lost nothing. An uncle, who'd never, despite all her best efforts, been real to her.

That was all. She'd lost no innocence to the war, no loved ones, no part of herself.

Molly understood pain, and grief, and death, and had since she was small. She understood how a family could be shattered by loss, and how they could piece themselves back together. She understood how the hole left behind never faded completely.

But when she listened to the speeches, and lowered her eyes, it wasn't because she felt some pain, or some leftover trauma. It was simply because she didn't know what else to do.

And afterwards, when she got sympathetic looks, when one friend hugged her, she felt like a liar. It wasn't her pain, her loss, her trauma. And all she could do was accept the sympathy, and hide the guilt.

* * *

He fidgeted yet again. Sitting still was an impossibility for Fred Weasley. As it had been, he'd heard countless times, for his namesake.

It was stupid. The whole war had been over for _ages_. Those people were all going to be dead no matter how long they sat around and listened to speeches, how many minutes of silence they held, how many candles they lit. Nothing would change.

He shifted again, then, guiltily. It was wrong, he knew, to think that way. To be irritated with his long dead-uncle. But, man, it was annoying when everyone was always telling you how much you were like some dead guy. Even a dead guy they'd loved, even a dead guy that sounded pretty cool. It was annoying how no one seemed to speak his name on this day, on the anniversary. It was annoying how he'd always be the _second_ Fred Weasley. How he'd never be free of that shadow.

Worse, though, was sitting here, through the memorial ceremony, while his father was unnaturally quiet, and still. To know that his dad was dwelling, as he so rarely did, at least as far as his son was aware, on that loss of his twin, the loss of the other part of himself. Misery was there, subtly coating his family. And he wasn't sure he'd ever stop being annoyed about, if he'd every stop wishing this day didn't affect them all so much, still.

And he wasn't sure he'd ever stop feeling guilty over that little voice in the back of his head, who muttered that it was time for them all to just get over it already.

* * *

Louis didn't really want to be here.

He should do. He knew he should. He should be glad of the opportunity to spend the time with his family, and pay his respects to his long-dead uncle. He should be, at the very least, glad of the day off lessons.

But he couldn't quite manage it. There was little to be grateful for, when people were staring at you, at the crowd that was your family. Most of the other students had, after his first few months, lost interest in him. The fame that was a by-product of his family only matter for so long to the other students; eventually, he'd stopped being Harry Potter's nephew, and was just Lou. Except now. Now, he was sat beside his battle-scarred father, with his impossibly beautiful mother on his other side. His war-hero relatives were scattered among his cousins, and it was his uncle stood on the stage, giving a speech. People were staring, some were whispering; it was like being eleven all over again.

And then, there was the way they all looked. His parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, the teachers and other members of the crowd that had fought in the war. That look on their faces, in their eyes, as they remembered the horror of the war, the grief of the loss. His Aunt Ginny, one of the most fearless people he'd ever known, looked scared. Of what, he wasn't sure, but it seemed to be Hogwarts itself that unnerved her. He wondered why, until he remembered that she'd been only a year older than he was now when she'd stood in the very hall and fought with Death Eaters, feet away from Voldemort himself and inches away from death. She'd stood in this hall and looked at her brother's death body.

He didn't try to imagine how he'd feel if he'd had to look at the lifeless shell of one of his sisters. He didn't want to feel even an echo of what that would be like.

He shook his head a little, then, to clear it, and flooded with guilt. This was the memorial service for his uncle, and all the other dead war heroes, he reminded himself. If he couldn't feel sad about it, he'd damn well look respectful, and not think about how much he wanted to be anywhere else.

* * *

James kept his hand lightly over his mothers. He couldn't help sort of hoping no one noticed, but he couldn't take his hand away, either. He might only be fifteen, but at that moment he felt immensely protective of his mother. He was already nearly taller than her, and she didn't look that old, really. Especially today. Especially here. When his mother entered Hogwarts, something about her changed, and has done for as long as he could remember.

So James was willing to risk embarrassment and hold his mother's hand, because he knew she needed to feel like she wasn't alone. Because he knew that his light touch, and, on her other side, Lily's arm threaded through hers, were keeping her steady, keeping her together. It would be Albus's turn next year, to trade with one of his siblings and provide that comfort; this year, his arm was resting over the back of Lily's chair, his hand close enough that, were Ginny to need to, she could reach up and grip it. So hadn't needed to, so far, but James imagined she was aware of the opportunity, and grateful for it.

He hated this. This whole thing. This whole ceremony. Oh, he understood it, and respected it. But he hated the way everyone changed, hated the way his mother remembered, and suffered for it, the way his aunts and uncles all looked so slightly _off_, the way they looked around the hall, without seeing the ceremony, the crowd, the candles.

Instead, they saw the bodies and the battle, the blood and the tears. He could practically _see_ those things in his mother's eyes, and he knew that she needed to be far, far away from this room, this building. Instead, she came here, out of family loyalty and duty and all the rest. On this day, she doesn't remember the good times she had at Hogwarts, but the very worse times, instead. On this day, she doesn't remember how her brother lived, but how he died. Just like all the others.

He'd always been protective of those he loved, so this day triggered those instincts. And this day was the one thing he could protect none of them from.

So he felt the guilt for that, for not finding a way to shield them, and he felt the guilt for hating this ceremony.

* * *

Roxy glanced towards her mother as they walked through the entrance hall, heading for the ceremony. Angelina had her husband's hand tight in hers, looking at him worriedly, while George made some joke or other, making Fred laugh. It was just a little forced.

She cast her gaze towards the memorial plaque, that huge sheet of gold fixed to the wall, engraved with the names of the death.

_Fred Weasley_ was right there, the lettering perfect, exactly where she'd known it would be. If he'd have lived, what kind of uncle would he have been? Would he have married, given her another aunt? Would she have liked that aunt? Would he have had kids? Would she be close to them, like she was close to Lucy?

There were a million questions, and they'd ran around her head a million times.

She'd never asked them. Wanted to, and nearly gathered the courage to, so many times. But taking that final step, asking her father, was something she hadn't managed to, even on the times he'd tell her and Fred stories about his twin, share memories and smile. She'd never quite managed to voice the questions. And probably, she thought, never would.

So, lowering her gaze with guilt, she stepped into the hall to pay her respects to the uncle she'd never know.

* * *

Lucy could picture it. She'd always had a good imagination. She'd glare – her best, sulky glare, the one she'd perfected aged eight – and announce that she wasn't going to the stupid memorial this year. That she had better things to do than sit in the hall and listen to people make the same old speeches, tell the same old stories. She wanted to spend her free day with her friends, not her family. She wanted to have _fun_.

Her father would say something about it being a family day, or that her family needed her with them. And she'd tilt her head, just a little, and say, "Like they needed you, Dad?" His mouth would open in surprise, and she'd say something like, "not much on family loyalty in this house, are we?" Something like that. She hadn't quite worked out the wording, but it would be something harsh, and hurtful enough to prevent her dad trying to stop her leave. So she'd turn, and walk away, and spend the day how she wanted to spend it, spend the day doing something fun.

She'd nearly done it this year. She was sure she had. She'd nearly said those hurtful things, nearly walked away and skipped this whole, stupid ceremony. And why? For what reason? Was it really just to hurt her father? Was that her only reason for creating the whole situation? Why? Why did she do things, say things, that she knew hurt her parents? Was she really just playing the bitchy, spoilt teenage role?

Lucy stared at her hands, then shot a glance at her father. His head was bent, and his hands were clutched together, tight enough to turn the knuckles white.

She hadn't gone through with it. She hadn't caused him that pain, not this time, anyway. But she nearly had, she could have, and she'd have used that old, sore wound, used her dead uncle and that horrific night, to do so. Would she have even felt guilty for it, as she now felt guilty for concentrating on herself, rather than the ceremony and the feelings of those around her?

Guilty and miserable, Lucy stared back at her hands and tried to figure herself out.

* * *

"Damn. Damn, damn, damn." Hissing under her breath, Rose ran down the hallway. She was late. She was incredibly late. Well, five minutes really, but it might as well have been thirty. She'd have to run into the memorial ceremony, find her family, a seat, with the eyes of everyone on her. She'd have to look at her grandmother and assess how much her being late had hurt her. She'd have to look at her grandfather and search his face for quiet disappointment. She'd have to –

She reached the bottom of the marble staircase, swung towards the hall, then hesitated. She'd been studying, and had lost track of time. Her Uncle George would be horrified by that – wasting most of her day off studying – and she imagined his twin would have been, too. But surely they'd understand? Surely they'd get that the memorial, the war and all those long-dead people hadn't spent much time in her mind when her exams were so close?

Except that they wouldn't, Rose thought, and sighed, walking slowly towards the doors. Her cousins would think little of it. But her aunts, her uncles, her parents and grandparents, they wouldn't. For them, this day was a big deal, and the memories it brought would always stay with them. They wouldn't see how anyone could think of much else on the anniversary.

It should mean more to her. It had before. She'd understood the enormity of it, the trauma, the grief. She'd respected it, and treated this day with that same respect. She felt the same need to remember and honour the sacrifice, and the victory.

But she had her own life to think of, too, didn't she? Her own dreams to follow. Was it so bad that she'd lost herself in trying to achieve those dreams, make the life she wanted, and forgotten the rest of it?

Of course it was, Rose though, and slipped quietly into the hall. Of course it was.

She moved quickly, and slid into the aisle seat that Albus had saved for her, muttering a quick, heartfelt thanks, and counting her blessings that the ceremony hadn't yet started. And guiltily avoided looking at anyone.

* * *

What was wrong with people? Did they have nothing better to do than stare at Harry Potter's son? Surely today, of all days, they could at least pretend to have some respect, to –

Albus broke off his silent rant and rolled his eyes at himself. Stupid to get annoyed about it now. Of course they were staring. He was Harry Potter's son, and all but a mirror image of him. And when Harry Potter himself was up on that stage, setting up for the annual ceremony, he supposed it was normal for the crowd to be looking at his kids.

He understood it. Just as he understood how different his family looked; that broken, haunted glimmer in his mother's eyes, the way his father would, every so often, go quiet and look around the room, _remembering_. He understood all the other little details, understood how everyone who'd experienced the war, experienced that last battle would carry it around with them forever.

He understood, he empathised. But...was it wrong that he sometimes wished it away? He loved his family, he did, but sometimes, he wondered what it would be like belong to a normal family. To be the son of some average people, rather than war heroes. To have a normal dad, rather than one who'd saved the wizarding world and carried the scars from doing so.

Sometimes, he wished – really wished – to be part of any other family. He'd even, once or twice, entertained fantasies of running away, starting a new life where he was alone, and his own person. Not Harry Potter's son, not part of the famous Weasley family, but just Al. But they were his family, and he could never really leave them, or hurt them that way.

He shifted in his seat as the speeches started, and burned with guilt.

* * *

Lily was mad. It was the wrong way to feel, she knew, but she couldn't help it.

Her mother looked so wrong. So young and broken and wrong. And though Lily didn't resent, for one moment, that she had to sit beside her mother, clutching her hand tightly, or that her brothers were on her mother's other side, lending their own support, she was still mad.

No one should look that way. No one should feel so broken.

No one should have to experience the things her mother had experienced. And...no one should have to see her mother that way. It was still difficult, knowing that her mother was breakable. That Hogwarts, the school Lily loved, held such pain and terror for her mother.

So she was mad. Mad at Voldemort and his Death Eaters for the things they'd done, mad at the people around her for insisting on holding this ceremony, year after year, when all it did was bring them pain. And mad at her long-dead uncle, for the pain he'd caused.

And that, she thought guiltily, lowering her gaze, was wrong. Fred hadn't chosen to die, hadn't planned on leaving his family broken. He probably hadn't wanted to.

But he'd still done it, hadn't he, Lily thought? And though she'd never known him, she'd never forgive him for it.

* * *

He was sick of this. He was sick of his parents quietly murmuring to each other, comforting, reminiscing. He was sick of sitting in this hall, surrounded by people mourning loved ones who were long dead. He understood it, the sacrifice, the enormity of it, the horror. He even understood the need to honour it, and to remember it. But to sit in the hall, year after year, and grieve all over again?

No, Hugo would never understand the need for that. Ripping old wounds open and baring them for all to see. Repeating the same words, year after year, as though this time they might bring comfort. He'd never understand why his grandparents would come back here and look as though the loss of their son was fresh and new. He'd never understand why his father would come in here, and stare around, hardly listening to the ceremony but lost in his own memories, or why his mother would listen intently, as though this year the words, or the names of the dead that were always read out, would be different. He'd never understand why his Aunt Ginny would sit here, even though everyone could tell she practically had a phobia of the place, or why his Uncle Percy still made himself feel guilty for the mistakes he'd made.

He'd never understand any of it.

But shouldn't he? Shouldn't he understand it, and respect it, and bow his head in respect and grieve for the uncle he'd never know and feel the horror and pain of it all? Shouldn't he?

But how could he? Those that had been lost had been long before he was even born, and so he couldn't grieve for them. The pain and horror and memories that others held were not his, never could be his.

And, though he felt guilt for it, still, he'd long since accepted it as fact.


	156. Brotherly Comfort

**Nearly just deleted this, because I don't really like it all that much. But posting it anyway, 'cause why not? The title sucks though. A lot.**

**156. Brotherly Comfort**

She stood in the middle of a field, with nothing but trees and flowers around her. It was quiet, still and peaceful. And still, even here, with nothing but the clean air and the pretty flowers, all those fears and worries niggled at her.

"It's OK, you know."

She whirled at the sound of the voice, and then choked on a gasp. She'd recognise him anywhere, even after all this time.

He hadn't changed. Not even a little. Every inch of him fit with her memories, and the sight of him was both thrilling and painful.

"Fred."

"Yeah." He replied, and moved closer. "Hiya." She wanted to touch him, just reach out and touch him and make sure he was real. But she daren't, in case he dissolved. "It's OK that you're scared and worried, Ginny. Why wouldn't you be?"

She ignored this, far too stunned at seeing him to listen to what he was saying. "You're dead."

"I know." He said, and his mouth quirked in that way it did.

"Then how...? Am I dead?"

"No. No, Ginny. You're fine. So's the baby."

"Then how...?"

"You always questioned everything. Just trust me, Ginny, just this once." He sat down, on the grass, and waited until she lowered herself down to sit with him. He nodded at her hugely swollen stomach. "It's due soon, isn't it?"

"He." Ginny corrected. "It's a boy. I know it is – I _feel_ it. We're going to call him James, for Harry's father. James Sirius Potter."

"Not much of you in there, little sister. Harry's father, Harry's godfather, Harry's surname."

"Harry's father, one of our close friends who died saving us, and our surname." Ginny replied mildly, and Fred gave a grin so familiar she ached.

"Point." He conceded. "James Sirius, huh?"

"Yeah. Um, George's son is called Fred, so we didn't..." She trailed off, and he laughed.

"I wasn't expecting you to put my name in there. So, tell me what you're afraid off."

"Excuse me?"

"You have that look on your face. Mostly terror and worry, some excitement. Like your first day of Hogwarts, or the first time you flew."

"I..." She couldn't focus on that. Not when he was sat here with her, talking with her, grinning at her. Not when she ached from the pain and joy of it.

"Come on. Tell me about it."

"It's a baby." Ginny blurted. "A tiny, helpless little baby. I make one mistake, and I could hurt him. I don't know how to be a mother, Fred. I barely know how to be an adult. I'm not even nearly ready for it."

"Will you ever be?" Fred asked. "Were you ready for the war, for that battle, for me to – to die?"

"No. But that's different. That was – that stuff just happened, and we...we had no choice. It was happening and we had to just deal. I've had eight months to prepare for this, and I haven't."

"That's OK. What do you think of the kid?"

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then smiled. "What, my kid? I don't know, I haven't met him yet. But, um, I love him."

"Already?"

"Yes. He's so _real_. He moves all the time, never stays still, and he's got such a strong kick. It's the most amazing thing..."

"If you love him, already, aren't you sort of halfway there? Big part of being a parent, isn't it?"

"Ah...I guess."

"And the rest of it, I guess you'll just have to learn when he gets out. Then you'll be thrown in the deep end, and you'll swim, like you always do. Are you worried about not getting much sleep? I hear your eight hours a night change to eight hours a week."

"I'm not bothered about that. The last year of the war I got barely any sleep. After a while, you learn to adjust."

"This has to be less scary than that, right? I mean, you got through a war, Ginny. You got through some horrific things."

"Well...I guess. It's a different scared. That was a pure, raw, terror. This is...an excited scared. Nervous."

"What else worries you, then? Besides being a horrible mother?"

She made a face at the phrase, but shrugged. "I...What if something's wrong with him? I mean, not _wrong_ with him, but what if he's born sick? Or if he gets sick later? What if he hurts himself? What if..." _What if I lose him? Can I stand another loss?_

"Aw, Ginny. You can't think like that. Don't see him as a potential loss."

"I already love him." She replied stubbornly. "I don't think I could stand it if I lost him. I really think it would break me." There it was, her deepest, darkest fear, out there, hanging in the air like the scent of the flowers.

"Ginny." He murmured. "You can't – you can't live like that, scared all the time. You used to be so fearless..."

"I know. But it's hard to be fearless, knowing that in a couple months I'll have this baby, my baby, depending on me...I'm scared. I'm so scared."

"That's OK. It's really OK to be scared. Just remember how to ignore the fear, Ginny, how to move past it."

"I'll try." She murmured doubtfully.

"You'll succeed." Fred corrected, and ruffled her hair in the way that he'd always done to annoy her. Again, the familiarity of it all but broke her heart. "And, Ginny? You'll be a great mother."

Before she could reply, she blinked, his face swam. She blinked again, and it was gone – as was the field, the trees, the flowers. She was sat on the sofa in the living room, slumped back against it, staring at the wall.

A dream, she thought, feeling the bittersweet pain that dreaming of her brother always brought. Just a dream, but so much more vivid and coherent than any of the others.

She frowned, looked carefully around then room, and shivered.

She could swear, she still faintly smelled the flowers.


	157. Promise

**Another Rose/Lorcan moment. ****Just so you all know, chapter 55, Guilt II, did originally include page breaks between each point of view, but for some reason were removed when I uploaded the document. Fixed it now, so it should be easier to read, and thanks to those who pointed it out.**

**156. Promises**

"I wouldn't mind, you know." Rose said suddenly. Only half listening, Lorcan raised his head.

"Mind what?"

"If you, you know, decide to do what Zander did, and see the world."

"Nah. He's told me about it. Nothing amazing." Because he had a sinking feeling he knew where the conversation was going, he rolled his eyes and started to turn away.

"I'm serious, Lorcan. I know that it wasn't nice while he was away, that you were hurt and angry at him. But you're still young, Lorcan -"

"And you're so old." Lorcan put in, rolling his eyes. He'd hoped things would stay as they had been since his accident, but here she was again, highlighting that little three-year age difference between them that she couldn't seem to let go of.

"You're still young," she continued, a little more forcefully, "and you have the money. So it might be nice for you to get out, see things, _live_ a little -"

"Same goes for you, Rosie."

"We're not talking about me. Besides, I've travelled a little. We're talking about you, Lorcan, and I hate thinking that I'm holding you back."

"You're not holding me back, Rose. I promise you."

"OK. But, still, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to...well, whatever. You still have your freedom." She sat, looking at him, twisting her hands together. Even she didn't understand why she was doing it again; picking at their relationship, all but daring him to leave her.

"OK, so what if I did? What if I said I was leaving tomorrow, and I won't be back for, oh, a year. What would you say?"

She swallowed. "Then, I'd say, good for you, I hope you have an amazing time and get some great memories. And I'd tell you...I'd tell you that they'll always be a place with me for you to come home to."

"Good answer." He decided. "OK, say that I do go off, travel, have that amazing time. And I meet someone. A girl. Maybe I like her. Maybe I fall for her, and decide I don't want to come home to you. I want to be with her."

She felt the pain. A quick, harsh twist of the heart. She couldn't even imagine how much it would hurt to hear him say those things and mean them. She couldn't imagine how she'd survive it.

"I...I'd say...OK, I'd scream a little, and we'd argue about it, and I'd cry." She could admit that, because it was true; as were her next words. "And then I'd tell you that I love you, that I'll always love you. And that, I hope she makes you happy, I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you. I hope you have the time of your life with her. And that I hope, one day, you'll come back to me."

"You'd wait? While I was with some other girl, you'd wait for me?"

"Don't get me wrong, Lorcan, I wouldn't stand you cheating on me, I wouldn't stand you deliberately hurting me. Some things would be too much. But if you really did meet this girl, fall for her, and tell me, honestly, about it, _before_ anything happened between you, if you were sorry for hurting me – and you would be, because you're you – then I think I'd wait. I meant it, Lorcan, when I said I'll be there for you to come home to. Always. I'd wait for you to get this girl out of your system, and come back to me."

"And if I didn't come back? If I married her and had kids and stayed with her forever? Would you move on?"

"I...I'd like to think so. I'd hope that, if it was absolutely clear that you were done with me, I'd have my own life. A happy life. With _someone_, and children, and everything. But I know that I'd still love you. Even if I loved someone else, a part of me would still always be in love with you. I'd always have you in my heart."

"OK, so say there was no girl. Say I never left. I stayed here, with you, and still loved you, and we – we got married and had kids and lived happily ever after. Would you still love me in ten years?"

"Yes." She said, without hesitation, frowning as she tried to follow his thought process.

"In twenty years?"

"Yes."

"In thirty years?"

"Yes, Lorcan. And in forty, and fifty, and sixty, and for the rest of my life!" She replied impatiently.

"Good. Now, Rose, ask me what I'd do if you decided to travel the world."

"What?"

"Ask me."

"Lorcan -"

"Ask me."

"Fine! What would you do?"

"I'd tell you to have the time of your life." He said calmly. "And to come home to me when you'd finished. Ask me what I'd do if you met some other guy, and left me for him."

"What would you do?" She asked, rolling her eyes. She knew where he was going now.

"After I broke his face, you mean?" He asked, and coaxed a reluctant grin out of her. "I'd tell you to be happy. To make sure he knew he was lucky to have you. And to come back to me, when you were done with him. I'd wait, Rose. I'll love you for the rest of my life, no matter what. So I'd wait. You'll always have a home with me. And I, no matter where I go, will always come home to you. And, Rose? No matter how many girls I meet, I'll never leave you."

"Oh."

"You're supposed to say it back. Well, something similar anyway."

She smiled a little, because his words had caused a happy little fluttering in her stomach. "I already said I'll always love you, and you'll always have a place with me to call home. I'll always come back to you, Lorcan, no matter where I go. And no one I could ever meet could take me away from you."

"Then why are we having this conversation? Why on earth would I want to travel the world, to not see you for weeks or months, when I start to miss you after a few hours apart? I'm stupidly, pathetically in love with you, Rose Weasley, and nothing you say can change that. I promise."

"I'll stop." She said, offering a shaky smile. "I'm sorry, Lorcan. I'll stop. _I_ promise." And she would. This time, she would.

"Good." He crossed to her, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.


	158. Lifelong Love

**Mushy, I know. This is another one of those find and finish pieces, and I don't think I intended such a sappy ending when I started it. But I also think I abandoned it because I didn't know how to end it, so sappy works. Oh, ignore the title. That's a bad one, even for me.**

**Big thanks to everyone who reviewed.**

**157. Lifelong Love**

He was nervous. God, he was nervous. Which was stupid, of course, because he loved Hermione, loved her with all his heart, with everything he had. He _wanted_ to marry her, had wanted to marry her more for the fact that she didn't even mention marriage, content to sit back and let him get there in his own time. Surely that showed just how well suited they were? That she would respect and understand that he needed to get to that place in his own time, and not try to force him there. She hadn't even hinted at it.

No, he loved her, respected her, and wanted to spend his whole life with her. The word "forever" scared him a little, but surely that was normal?

The nerves, however...Why should he be nervous? There was no need for nerves, no possible reason.

He shook his head, and left his room, deciding he'd be less stupid in the company of other people. He could concentrate on seeing to the guests, and ignore the nerves.

"Oh, hell." He stopped at the back door in horror, looking at the crowd of people. They'd tried to keep it small, and had, obviously, failed miserably. He leaned against the doorframe, and smiled in spite of himself, because they were marrying in the garden of his childhood home. He'd offered Hermione a church wedding, a muggle wedding. He'd offered to keep magic out of it, for her parents if nothing else. And she'd thanked him, kissed him, and told him she wanted a simple, magical wedding in his parents' back garden. Even though he knew part of her reason for choosing so was because she knew he wanted it, he also knew that everything about today was the way she wanted it. And so he was happy with it.

"Ron?" Ginny appeared in front of him, causing him to blink away the memory. "Do you think you could go round front and direct people?"

"There's more?" He couldn't quite hide the horror in his voice.

"Yeah. And we're all running around getting ready." She gestured down to the old jeans and hoodie she was wearing. "I'm not even dressed yet."

"Right, yeah. I'll, ah, go do the greeting thing, then. Have you seen Hermione yet?"

"Yes. She'll look amazing, Ron." She grinned at him. "You look pretty great yourself. Congratulations."

"Don't congratulate me yet. She still has time to back out." It was meant as a joke, but didn't quite sound like one.

"She won't." Ginny was still grinning, but her voice was sincere. "Go greet your guests, and I'll see you soon."

He rounded the house, relieved to see only a few people in the front garden. Harry, his best man, was talking to Hannah, while Bill and Charlie were pointing relatives in the right direction. Ron stepped towards the gate, as Lavender Brown walked towards it.

As always, it caused him a pang to see her. Pretty Lavender, with her face scarred and her eyes haunted. Beautiful Lavender, who'd never really be beautiful again.

"Hi." He said, his voice careful because he still wasn't sure what to say to her. She'd been his first girlfriend, after all, and they'd hardly parted on good terms. And then, with the war, none of that had mattered. He'd all but forgotten about her, until he'd seen her with her face and arms torn open, her eyes bleak.

He knew, from Hermione, that Lavender was still having a hard time accepting herself as she was. He also knew, from Hermione, that she and Seamus were together, and that was helping.

"Hello." She said, her voice extra bright. Ron didn't know it was because she was determined not to spoil the occasion, even though she was panicked and horrified and miserably self-conscious, being out here in front of people. "Congratulations."

"Thank you. Ah, is Seamus not with you?"

"No, no, he's running a little late. He'll be here, though."

"Right. Ah, shall I show you where to go...?"

"Is it just around there?" She indicated the side of the house. "I think I can follow the noise."

"OK. I guess I'll see you later, then." She smiled at him, started to walk away. He hesitated, struggling with himself, uncertain of whether or not he should trust his instincts. In the end, he chose to go with them, and called her name. When she turned back to him, he smiled. "You look really good."

She looked surprised, then pleased. "Thank you." She said, and, as she turned back and started to walk, relaxed a little, because she sort of believed it. She'd never be what she once was, of course not. But she hoped that, one day, she'd feel good about herself, again.

Ron turned back to the gate, and smiled absently at Padma Patil and Terry Boot. They were arm in arm, and both grinned at him. Though he couldn't claim to know either of them very well, it had been hard to miss any of his schoolmates from the list of guests, after everything they'd been through. There was a bond there, would always be a bond there, even if they never saw each other again.

"Nervous, then?" Terry asked him brightly. "Big day."

"Yeah. I am, actually." Ron admitted, then caught himself. "Not that I don't want to. I mean..."

"Yeah. Don't blame you, mate." Terry replied, then glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Michael's back there. I'm just going to walk back down and meet him, Pad. I need to, um, ask him something." Since that "something" was help in picking out an engagement ring, he darted off before Padma could ask questions.

Padma watched him leave with some curiosity, then turned back to Ron. "It's OK to be nervous. It's normal."

"Right. Good. I, I sort of think I shouldn't be, though. I _want_ to marry Hermione -"

"Of course you do. And when you want something that much, it's only natural to feel nervous when you get it. It's important, Ron. You should feel nervous about something this important."

"Right." He smiled at her a little.

"I always knew you two would end up together." She added conversationally. "Remember, when we went to the Yule Ball? You ignored me all night. All you could talk about was Hermione. You were so mad at her for going to Victor Krum instead of you."

"It wasn't – he was, you know, Harry's competition. I wasn't – I didn't even like her then. I mean, not like…"

She smiled at him. "You really believe that, don't you? Ron, you were probably already half in love with her then. There was definitely something."

He stared at her, and her smile widened. "You guys are going to be great together." She told him. "Congratulations, Ron."

"Thank you." He said, as Terry and Michael walked up behind her. "Um, I'll show you where to go."

He thought about what she'd said, though, as he showed yet more guests (had they really invited this many people?) to their seats, as he awkwardly soothed his mother when she burst into tears and called him Ronnie, weeping about him being her little boy, all grown up. He thought about it when Harry told him it was time to take his place, and thought about it when he stood at the front, muttering "oh, God" under his breath.

And then he saw her.

The dress, he knew, had been her mother's, but it fit her as though it had been made only for her. She'd told him all about the sapphire earrings she was wearing, how they had belonged to her great grandmother – something old and blue, and borrowed from her mother – and the diamond necklace was brand new. She didn't think he'd listened when she'd explained this, but he had, though he still didn't understand why exactly a bride needed such things.

She was beautiful. It took his breath away, overtook his thoughts. She was beautiful, and glowing, and smiling at him. How could he not have loved her for his whole life? Surely, surely he must have been sliding towards love the very second he set eyes on her? How could he not have been? There couldn't, surely, have possibly been a time when he didn't love her?

_You were probably half in love with her then._

Maybe, he thought, remembering Padma's words. Maybe he had been. Either way, he knew, as Hermione walked towards him, her eyes never leaving his, that he'd love her for the rest of his life. Nothing could change it, ever.


	159. The Beach

**More fluff, I'm afraid. Just a little something I wrote to pass the time at work a few days ago. My main reason for posting it is it's the only thing I've written recently that's not on my memory stick, and since the memory stick is all the way upstairs and I'm lazy, it's easier to post this. Still, you all like Rose and Lorcan well enough, right?**

**159. The Beach**

This had been a great idea, Rose had to admit. The beach trip that Lysander had suggested had seemed unworkable, at first, but they'd managed it.

They made quite a crowd, she noted. Lily, Scorpius, Lydia and Lysander in the water, laughing and splashing and dunking each other, Hugo, Ally and Albus building sandcastles, trying to outdo each other, and herself and Lorcan sat on the sand, warmed by the sun. Rose lifted the camera she'd brought, snapped another picture. She'd lost count of how many she'd taken now, but she was certain she'd treasure each one. She'd fill a photo album, and she'd remember the day forever as one of the best days of her life.

"It's good we had this." Lorcan mused, looking out to see where his brother and friends were. "Everything's changing, now. Lily and Scorpius are getting married in a few months, Zander, Lydie and me have left school...It's good to have this one last day before it all changes completely."

"Feeling sad about it?"

"Sentimental." Lorcan corrected, he shifted to face her, flashed that grin that always made her stomach tighten, just a little. "The last time we did this, I was, what, twelve? No, eleven. Lily and Hugo were twelve, and you and Albus and Ally were fourteen. We had our parents with us, and James and Mitch."

"Who, at fifteen, felt they were far too old to hang out with the kids and went for a wonder on their own." Rose remembered with a smile. "Dad got sunburnt, and your mum bought us all ice-creams."

"We were all in the water, and then Lydia had to come out because she was so cold her lips turned blue Albus and Lily argued, then made up, in the space of about ten minutes."

"Then you and Zander did the same. Hugo buried himself in the sand, then Ally told him something about sand spiders and he made her dig him back up. God, I'd forgotten all about it." She smiled, set the camera down. "It was a great day."

"You dunked me, in the water." Lorcan remembered suddenly. "And you said I was too weak and small to get you back."

She winced. "I didn't say it that...harshly. I wasn't serious."

"Uh-huh. I'm bigger and stronger now."

She flicked a glance at him, amused by the implication and not thinking for a second he'd follow through. "Yeah. But we're not in the water. Better luck next time."

She'd already looked away from him, reaching for the camera again, when he moved. In one quick move, he lifted her up into his arms, and started a fast walk towards to water.

"What're you doing? Lorcan, what're you doing?" Laughing, she fixed her arms around his neck, well aware of what he was planning. "Don't you dare. Don't even think it." She wriggled, twisted, and he held on tight. He was right – he was bigger and stronger now.

"It may have taken me seven years, but I told you I'd get you back." He told her, stepping into the water. She twisted some more, failed again to loosen his grip, and laughed as he moved further into the waves, then shifted his grip on her, as though to drop her into the water.

"No. No no no no no." She tightened her hold around his neck, met his grinning gaze. "I'm not letting go."

"OK." And, to her absolute shock, he sat down heavily in the water, soaking them both.

She squealed as she hit the water, from the shock and the cold. And then she laughed, tossing wet hair out of her eyes. "I can't believe you did that. I can't believe it."

She was giggling, he mused. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her giggle, carefree and happy. Thrilled with her, he leaned forward and kissed her.

She didn't hesitate. For the first time since they'd gotten together, she didn't hesitate before kissing him back in front of her family. Instead, she giddily kissed him back.

Later, she'd think of it as a turning point, a step the right direction, that carefree kiss, not worrying what anyone thought, not believing, in some secret part of her, that it was _wrong_ to be kissing him at all. She would think of it as the first time she fully accepted the she was falling for him, and the first time she wasn't concerned about it.

But in that moment, she only thought how thrilled she was with life, with him.


	160. Killer

**Not a character I write about all that often, which is one of my reasons for writing it. Plus I'd already said in an earlier chapter than Seamus had killed someone; I wanted to explore it in a bit more detail.**

**160. Killer**

He laughed. God, god, the man actually laughed as the woman's lifeless body fell to the ground. Just folded up, completely gave out, devoid of all life in a split second.

Seamus watched in horror. He didn't know the woman (later, he would learn her name, and for the rest of his life he would visit her grave once a year, this stranger who he'd seen die) but she'd gone from life to death right before his eyes. A finger snap of time, and she was gone. His heart racing, he watched the man – wizard, death eater, murderer – turn away from the body, as though it was litter he'd dropped unnoticed. He raised his wand, aimed it at a boy across the hall, who was fighting furiously with another hooded figure.

He knew the boy. Not to speak to, not even to nod to in greeting. He didn't know his name, or age or house. But he knew the face, had passed him in the corridor countless times, sat near him once, he was sure, at a Quidditch game. Seamus had never taken notice, never really registered the boy's presence, until now when a death eater's wand was aimed at him, and he was oblivious.

The boy was younger than him. He was sure of it, though he couldn't have said whether it was through genuine knowledge or basic instinct. But the boy was younger than him, and this man was about to end his life as easily as he'd just ended the woman's.

"Stop it!" Seamus heard himself scream, and was surprised to hear it. "Just stop it!"

The man turned back, staring at him with amusement.

"Just stop it." It wasn't a scream, this time; more of a whimper. He was tired, and he ached, and he was covered in bruises and he'd seen and done too much tonight, too much to keep doing it.

He might've spoken again, or possibly just murmured "stop it" inside his own head. But he looked at the Death Eater in front of him and knew that no amount of screaming or pleading would stop this. He could tell them to stop it as much as he wanted, but they wouldn't.

With a cold, cruel smile, the Death Eater stepped over the discarded body, and towards Seamus, lifting his wand. That, the careless gesture towards the poor woman's body, coupled with the obvious intention in the man's eyes, snapped something inside him.

He lifted his wand, and with all the strength he could manage, yelled out two words he'd never believed he'd speak. Never believe he could speak.

The man had a moment, a brief, brief moment of looking amused – as though this boy, this young boy who looked ready to drop from sheer exhaustion, this boy who looked like he'd hit his limit, could actually hurt him, never mind kill him – and then the curse struck him.

With some of that amusement still etched on his face, he dropped to the floor, as lifeless as the body beside him.

And Seamus dropped to his knees.

He'd killed him. Oh God, oh God, he'd killed him. He'd actually killed him, taken his life. Kill or die, it had been kill or die, and he'd chosen kill.

Was he any better than that man, really? Hadn't he just ended a life, as easily, as carelessly as the man had?

"Hey. Hey." The voice was dim, barely piercing the buzzing in Seamus' ears. Slowly – he felt like he was moving through syrup – he raised his head and looked up to see the boy, the one who'd unknowingly been seconds from death. "You can't stay here. You can't sit here like that. Move."

The boy's voice held so much urgency that Seamus let himself be dragged to his feet, and then into a nook that used to hold a coat of armour. "C'mon, man, c'mon."

Because the boy looked terrified, Seamus tried to drag himself back. "I killed him." He said, hearing the stunned horror of his own voice. "I killed him."

"I know. I know. It's OK, mate, it's OK. He killed that woman. He – he was gonna kill me." The boy's swallow was audible. "He'd've kept killing, anyone he saw, anyone of us. It's – it's a good thing that you got him first."

Seamus nodded, but the truth of the words only made him feel sicker. He sank to the floor again, and dropped his head between his knees, dragging in breath, forcing it out, and hoping the boy had enough sense to guard them both. Slowly, slowly he could think again, and he could focus, and the sickness faded.

"Sorry." He heard himself mutter. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." When Seamus looked up, the boy helped him to his feet. "I'd've probably done the same. Steady?"

Seamus tried to grip his wand a little tighter, and found he couldn't. But he nodded anyway. "Steady."

"I, um, I'll get back to..." The boy gestured and trailed off.

"Yeah. Ah, be careful. Good luck."

"Yeah, yeah you too."

Seamus watched him go, and wondered if he'd ever see him again. (The boy lived, and Seamus saw him from time to time, at memorial ceremonies and the like. They'd nod to each other, occasionally have a short exchange, but never speak of that night.)

He felt close to tears. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried, and couldn't ever remember feeling this much pressure on his chest, his throat. But he ignored that, and, scanning the deserted corridor for danger, moved back to the bodies. The woman, the woman he'd watched die, was still crumpled on the floor, and her killer was laid in front of her. Too close, Seamus thought, and, as carefully as he could manage, clumsily keeping his wand usable, he dragged her away, to the side, and into the nook he'd almost thrown up in. She was past caring of course, about what happened to her body, about how close it lay to her killer's. But Seamus wasn't. Then he turned away, forced himself to push it out of his mind, to concentrate on keeping himself alive.

He'd killed a man. To save another, yes, and, possibly, as some kind of justice for the dead woman who's face he'd never forget. But he'd still killed, taken a life, and he would carry that around with him forever.

(Later, much later, when he told Lavender that he'd killed, and told her about the guilt he felt for it, she'd called him brave. So, so brave. And he'd told her no, bravery had nothing to do with it. He'd been long past the point of bravery. It had been about desperation, and survival, and some kind of justice for a woman who's face he'd never forget. She still insisted he was brave; they'd never agree on the matter.)


	161. Resolution

**More next gen stuff. I meant to do this one ages ago though, but struggled to get it written. A slight resolution to Scorpius' problems with his grandfather. Hence the title. And because I could think of absolutely nothing else.**

**Thank you, of course, to all reviewers. And readers too, but extra thanks for taking the time to review.**

**161. Resolution**

There was a part of him – a large part of him – that wanted to turn away. To give it up as a bad idea, to give it up as a loss. He could live with it. He could live without his grandfather in his life, could live with the rift, could live with the knowledge that his grandfather didn't love him, didn't approve of him, didn't accept his wife.

And he might've turned away, might've lived with the rift, and that knowledge, if not for the baby. The baby deserved more. He deserved better. He deserved to be loved and accepted and approved of.

So he would enter the house, he would say what he had to say, do all he could, and hope it would work.

He knocked on the door, and waited. After what seemed like forever, the door opened. His grandfather stood there, staring at him. "Scorpius. Ah, Narcissa isn't home."

"No, I know. She's at my parents." He'd left her there, crying a little with his mother, after telling them about the baby. "I came to see you."

"Oh. Well, come in." Looking suspicious, Lucius led him through the house into a painfully formal drawing room. It had always been Scorpius' least favourite room of the house, the one he'd spent the least amount of time in. But he settled himself onto a solid sofa – antique and expensive but extremely uncomfortable – and watched his grandfather sit in a chair. Lucius said nothing, only waited.

"I have something to tell you. I need you to be calm about this. No anger, no disappointment, no disowning me." Scorpius said slowly. "Not until I've finished, anyway. When I'm done talking, be as angry and disappointed as you want, disown me however much you want to."

Lucius only nodded, far too used to his grandson's sarcastic streak to comment.

"I love my wife." He hadn't planned to start with that, but then, he hadn't really planned what to say at all. "With everything I am, I love her. You've never approved of that, never accepted that, but I love her anyway. I married her, I've made a home with her, and I've started a life with her. I'm happy – she makes me happy. And she accepts me, all of me, for who I am, what I am. You've never done that, so you wouldn't understand. But, then, I've never accepted you, either, so we're even there."

"Scorpius -"

"Let me finish. You've made sure we both know you disapprove, made sure we both know you don't like her. That stops. Now. Lily and I are going to have a baby."

Surprise flitted across Lucius' face, but Scorpius spoke before he could.

"She's – we're pregnant. So in about six months, you're going to have a great-grandchild. One that's half Potter. You've no choice in that. Now, this is where you get a choice. You can be a part of that baby's life. You can accept Lily – you don't have to like her, you don't even have to approve, but you accept her, you stop ignoring her and referring to her as "that girl" because really, it's pathetic and childish and pitiful. You accept this child, my child. You love him or her, you never make them feel less than they are, never make them feel they aren't good enough. You could, if you were feeling particularly nice, accept me, but I'm not too fussed on that one. I've lived my whole life without your acceptance or approval, I can live the rest of it without it too. But you accept the kid, you accept Lily, because I'm sick of seeing her upset at this, feeling like it's her fault, feeling guilty for it. And I'm sick of seeing the way you make her feel less than she is." He kept his eyes locked on his grandfather. "Or you don't, and we stay out of each other's life, we don't have contact. You don't know the child, don't see them."

"Scorpius -"

"No, I'm serious. We've had our problems, our disagreements, but the way you've been towards Lily is something else. And she keeps telling me it doesn't have to be a choice between her and you, but it does. You've made it so it has to be a choice. And I choose her, and our baby. So what do you choose?"

Lucius stared at him for a long moment. "Scorpius. I...I know we've had our problems. And I don't like that girl – I don't like your Lily. She's not what I imagined for you, and you can do better."

"So that's your choice." And he felt sick.

"No! No. You're still my grandson. And if you're determined to stay with that – with your Lily, then I suppose I'll have to get used to it. To her. I...Congratulations, Scorpius. And, er, pass that along to your Lily, as well."

"You'll stop being such a – um, you'll stop being the way you have been? You'll be a part of the baby's life?"

"I would like, very much, to be a part of the child's life, yes. If – if accepting your Lily if what I have to do, then so be it."

Scorpius nodded. He couldn't quite work out why exactly his grandfather kept referring to Lily as "your Lily" but it was better than "that girl". Possibly a way of distancing himself from her, or possibly to show some form of acceptance. Maybe he'd never figure it out, but he could deal with it.

"OK. OK. Good. Thank you."

"And, Scorpius? I...I never disapproved of you. Your choices, perhaps, but not you."

"Oh. I, er, right. Thanks. Um, good to know." He hoped, fervently, that one day he could have a full conversation with his grandfather without any awkwardness creeping in. "Um, well, I better go. We're having dinner with Lily's parents and brothers tonight. Sort of a little celebration thing. Um, and at the weekend, the Weasley's are throwing us a party. You have an invite, if you want it..."

"Oh. Er, well..."

"Yeah, maybe expecting you to be at the same party as Arthur Weasley is a step too far." Scorpius replied, with an easy smile. "Don't worry about it. I understand. I really do." And he did, so he wouldn't, couldn't, hold that one against him.

"Ah, if you could find the time, I'm sure Narcissa and I could have the two of you over for dinner, too, to celebrate with you?"

"Lily too?"

"Of course." Lucius replied, with the hint of a smile. "The _two_ of you, Scorpius."

It was the first invite he'd ever offered to Lily, Scorpius mused. Though she'd attended parties at his grandparents' house, she'd never received a personal invite.

Everything wasn't going to fix overnight. But it was a start. And it was unlikely they'd ever all get along perfectly, unlikely his family would ever accept Lily as easily as her family had accepted him. But it would do.

"Thank you. We'll be there."


	162. Darkness and Death

**I think it's been a little while, sorry guys. Thinks have been a little hectic lately. And this is quite short, but it's all I've got finished at the minute. Much thanks for reviews, obviously.**

**162. Darkness and Death**

There was something dark in him. He'd always known it, couldn't remember a time before the shadow lived in him. He'd never feared it, though, never thought of it as something wrong. It was a part of him, and, he'd come to realise, the best part of him.

The strongest, the smartest, the most powerful.

And it made him more, more than he would be without it, more than anyone around him.

And much, much more than his worthless muggle of a father had been.

He still couldn't explain to himself why it had mattered, at all, who'd sired him. Why he'd been driven to find out how he'd begun, and how he'd ended up in the muggle orphanage, raised with those who weren't worthy to look at Lord Voldemort.

For that was his name, now. Once he'd learned all the sordid details of his beginnings, once he'd moved past the anger and outrage and bitter hurt of it all, he'd cast aside that filthy muggle name, and chose a new one. A name worthy of the darkness that lived in him. The darkness that _was _him.

It was a big house. That disgusted him, angered him. His pointless excuse for a father lived in a big house, surrounded by all the comforts money could bring, while his son lurked in poverty, living from the insulting charity of others.

Not for much longer. Though some would still consider him a child, he wasn't. Maybe he never had been – he'd certainly never had the innocence of other children.

He didn't bother with stealth, sneaking into the house, creeping around it. He walked in through a side door, wondered the rooms, pocketing several small trinkets. And then, he stepped into the dining room.

There they were. His worthless father, and grandparents.

For a moment – just a brief, guilty moment that he'd always deny afterwards – he wondered how it would have been if they'd accepted him, brought him into this home, showered him with wealth and affection. If he'd been part of a family, if he'd had someone in his life to love him, would the darkness have taken root and spread? Would he have found here the happiness that had always eluded him?

Then the moment had passed, and he tightened his hold on the wand in his pocket.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

It wasn't his father who spoke, but the older man; his grandfather. He'd stood, and was glaring.

"You don't recognise me?" Voldemort asked, and laughter touched his voice. "I've come for a nice family reunion."

"Excuse me?" The older man demanded, but Voldemort's eyes flickered to the woman. She had one hand clasped to her throat, and her eyes were huge and horrified. She saw, Voldemort realised. She had really looked, and seen who he was.

He had his father's face, after all.

"Tom." The woman whispered, but didn't tear her eyes away from Voldemort's face. "Tom. He's yours."

He saw, with amusement, the moment the men understood. And the elder man sat heavily down. "What do you want, boy?"

"Oh, nothing much, really." Voldemort said easily. Then drew the wand from his pocket. As carelessly as one might swat a fly, he murdered the woman, the elder man. And then, a terrible smile on his young, handsome face, he turned the wand on the man who'd fathered him.

"Don't. Don't, don't don't. Please, please, I beg you."

The smile faded. "I'd hoped you were better than that."

"You're my – my son?"

"In a way." Voldemort nodded. There was a kind of pain in his chest, one he didn't want to examine. "As in, you sired me. But other than that, no."

"You can't kill me. I'm your father. You can't -"

"Oh, but I can. You filthy muggle, you think I have any loyalty to you? To anyone? You abandoned me before I was born, Riddle. You're not a father. And this, this is your punishment."

His voice was calm as he ended the man who'd created him. And his hands were steady as he walked from the house, leaving the three of them slumped there.

He felt no different. He'd killed, torn his soul, but felt no different for it. Not yet, he mused, already forgetting the bodies he'd left.

They were nothing to him, after all.


	163. Amazement

**Each moment is from a different year, just in case I didn't make that clear. Which I don't think I have.**

**163. Amazement**

_She shot him a grin, nervous and excited. It wasn't really even directed at him, and it definitely wasn't personal. It was simply pride and joy at her sorting. But James smiled back, and stared at her for a long time after she turned away._

_He was eleven. And the bright grin from Lily Evans had caused an unfamiliar fluttering in his stomach._

He was eleven. A little young, perhaps, to be kissing Maureen McKinnon in the courtyard. But she was pretty, and smart, and she'd gotten her best friend to whisper to him in Charms that she liked him a lot. So he kissed her in the courtyard, a kiss that made him feel grown up and clever and experienced, but was really innocent and clumsy and naive.

She was his girlfriend, pretty Maureen, for over three weeks. They got bored of kissing each other, and by the end of those three weeks both preferred spending their time with their respective friends than with each other. Their split was mutual and they were both rather relieved by it.

One of the older students, with amusement in his eyes, commented that that James was already developing a skill with the girls.

James had laughed, and grinned, and then the grin had faded when he'd looked over at Lily Evans, who was writing a letter and paying no attention to him. She never paid any attention to him, apparently immune to those developing skills.

* * *

_She was reading, a half smile on her face as she curled up in one of the armchairs, flicking the pages rather fast. A quick reader, he noted. And her grin widened, evidently in amusement at what she'd read. One of her friends sat down beside her, nudged her knee, and said something. Lily looked up, and laughed. The sound was bright and clear and James felt a quick, odd thrill at the sound of it._

"You're so funny, James." Ann-Marie Ackroyd often said the words, with a smile, instead of laughing. It was a habit James was quickly becoming irritated by.

"Yeah, thanks." He said absently. He was twelve, and though Ann-Marie was the most popular girl in his year, he was fast realising how annoying she was. Popularity had seemed so important just a few weeks ago; he'd been thrilled with the way everyone in his year seemed to know his name, how many people seemed to like him. Him, and Sirius, and Remus and Peter too. It had seemed, as their popularity had grown, that everything was going to get so much better. And when Ann-Marie had told him he was going to be her boyfriend, he'd been amused and flattered and thrilled by it – the most popular girl in his year choosing him.

Now, though, he was bored and irritated by her, and bemused by the way she seemed to need so much of his attention.

He would, he thought with little regret, have to break things off here. He'd be nice to her, but he would definitely have to break things off. He'd feel bad about it, of course, but also grown up and a little superior, with no idea how simple and easy a relationship between two twelve year olds really was.

Sirius said something, and James' response was quick, funny, and automatic.

"You're so funny, James." Ann-Marie said again. Yes, James thought, popular Ann-Marie was not going to be his girlfriend for much longer.

"Yeah, all the girls think James is funny." Sirius drawled, rolling his eyes at James.

James smirked, but his eyes trailed over to Lily Evans. She was close enough to have heard everything he'd said, but there'd been no flicker of amusement. Apparently, all the girls thought he was funny, except for the one he sort of wanted to.

* * *

_He was just really noticing girls, just really paying real attention. Not that he hadn't noticed them before – he'd had two girlfriends, after all. But this year, all the girls seemed a little different. And he was definitely noticing. Even as he thought it, Lily Evans walked past, arm in arm with a friend. Just a little different, he noticed. Just a little different, and he couldn't take his eyes off of her._

He was thirteen, and single. Though he liked looking at the girls this year, fascinated by the way they'd changed, he had no desire for a girlfriend. Ann-Marie had been a lot of trouble, for weeks after he'd broken up with her.

So he had no longing for a girlfriend.

He did, however, extremely like the attention girls gave him. Now that his Quidditch skills were being shown every match, the girls were impressed. Enough that some of them even came to watch the training sessions.

Which was a little silly, really, and made him a little self conscious, but was nice all the same.

Knowing that the four girls in the stands were watching him, he performed a quick loop, and then a dive, yanking his broom up at the last second. He was a good flier, and he knew it.

"Potter!" His captain cried in annoyance. "Stop showing off, will you?"

"He doesn't need to show off." One of his teammates commented. "All the girls are impressed with Potter."

James laughed. "Damn right." He tilted his broom, and flew away. And thought of Lily Evans who, despite attending every Quidditch game, never seemed impressed with him, and never came to watch practice. He caught the big red ball that was thrown to him, and shoved it through the hoop. One of the girls in the stands cheered.

Yes, James Potter impressed the girls. Except the one he thought about most.

* * *

_He'd tried talking to her, again. And she'd talked back a little. Just a little, but she hadn't even really smiled, hadn't really seemed interested. And then she'd gone off to meet that Slytherin, without a backwards glance. He should have taken the hint. There were five girls in his year that, he had on good authority, were interested in him. It was Evans, however, who he'd been trying to chat up._

He was fourteen, and had just switched from sweet Beatrice to smart Victoria. Beatrice had been the sweetest girl he'd known, but he'd decided they were better off as friends. Mainly because he hadn't really been all that interested in the first place, and it was making him feel guilty, stringing her along. So they were friends, and he was with Victoria.

"You're so nice." She commented. "The nicest boy I know."

"If you say so." James replied, flashing her a grin. That grin was just beginning to make girls sigh, and whisper, and dream.

"You are." Victoria insisted, and James' shrugged. It was no big deal to walk her back to her common room, after all. She kissed him, and he kissed her back. Different, of course, to those innocent kisses he and Maureen had shared back in his first year. Better, he figured. "Good night." Victoria murmured.

"Night." He watched her into the common room, then headed back down the hallway. And nearly walked into Snape.

"Watch it." Snape snarled, and James sneered.

"You watch it. Out of my way, Snivellus."

James expected an angry retort, or a glare. Not for the other boy to pull out his wand.

"Hey!" Surprised and annoyed, James drew out his own wand. "Move, you slimy son of a -"

"Leave him alone!" Lily came out of no where, and dragged his arm down. "You jerk, Potter, leave him alone."

"Aw, c'mon Evans, he started it -"

"You're a jerk, Potter. Stay away from us." She shot him a furious look, then tugged Snape's arm until he turned and walked away with her. James glared after them.

Smart Victoria may have thought he was a nice guy, but Evans seemed to hate him. And it bothered him that he cared about her opinion at all.

* * *

_She glared at him, her eyes lit with anger. Sparks were practically flying from them. Her mouth was moving a mile a minute as she ranted at him. And still, all he could think about was kissing her. How that mouth would feel, taste. How her eyes would change. And if she'd known where his thoughts were, she might have slit his throat._

He'd given up on pretending. Though he'd hidden his feelings – crush? Infatuation? Lust? – for Lily Evans pretty much the whole time he'd known her, he'd decided to take his chances and ignore the way her disinterest in him had turned to dislike.

She'd turned him down. Obviously assuming he was joking, she'd shot a sarcastic comment at him and walked away. Never one to be dissuaded easily, he'd persisted.

So far, she was persisting too, and though she seemed to have stopping thinking he was joking, her refusals were still firm.

"Our Prongs here can get any girl he wants." Sirius told one of the younger students, nodding towards James who was watching Lily, though hiding it well.

"Yeah, any one." James muttered automatically.

Except, of course, the one he wanted.

* * *

_The conversation was short, and it was simple. But the fact that they'd had a conversation, one that didn't include insults or shouting or ranting, thrilled him. She'd looked like she didn't hate talking to him, even looked a little amused. It took real effort to act casual._

"You didn't have to walk me back." Lily said as they reached the castle.

"It's late, it's dark." James shrugged.

"Hogwarts is safe."

"Why take the risk? I don't mind walking you back, and the guys don't mind waiting at Hagrid's. I didn't know you actually spent any time at his house, you know."

"At Hagrid's? I visit him sometimes. He's one of the nicest people I've ever known, and I figure he might get a bit lonely out there. Do you guys spend a lot of time with him?"

"He's one of our favourite people." James tugged open the castle door. "You need me to walk you to the common room?"

She smiled at him. There was both surprise, amusement, and something else in that smile, and something in his stomach twisted. "No, I think I can manage. Thank you."

"No worries." He watched her up the marble staircase, and when she turned at the top, shot him another smile, he wondered if she knew what she was doing to him.

He'd made up his mind. Though he had, over the summer, decided to give up on Lily Evans, the resolution had died – as he'd known it would – the second he'd seen her again. So now he'd made up his mind.

He was going to make her his. He was going to be hers. And though he wasn't quite sure how he'd manage it, he was determined to do so.

She was all he'd ever really wanted, after all.

* * *

_He adored her. Everything about her. The way she kissed, the way she wrapped her arms around him, the way her hand felt clutched in his, the way she looked at him. The way she spoke, and the things she said. The way she laughed, and the way she smiled. Everything._

Different. It was different, kissing Lily Evans, than it had been kissing anyone else. Better, in a thousand different ways.

He could happily spend his whole life kissing Lily Evans. Or holding her, or talking to her, or looking at her. Just being with her.

"What?" She asked him, tilting her head. They were sat on the grass, facing each other, hands linked. And he was just looking at her.

"Nothing. I like looking at you. You make me happy, Lily."

She almost blushed. No one, in all her life, had ever looked at her like he did. "You make me happy, too."

"Surprised?"

"Mmm, not so much."

He grinned, and released one of her hands so he could brush her hair back from her face. "You're mine. You have no idea how amazing that is. How amazing you are."

He'd got the girl, the only one he'd ever really wanted. The one who'd mattered most, always, and always would.

What more could he ask for?


	164. Death and Rain

**OK, I know I've already done a similar chapter to this. But I started writing this one ages ago, and just found it and finished it. Plus, I've got nothing else to update with at the minute, sadly. The title is bad, I know, but ignore it.**

**Thanks, of course, for the reviews.**

**164. Death and Rain**

It was the middle of July, summer was well underway.

And it was raining. The sky above London was grey, the rain beating down heavily, sharp spikes of icy cold water that delighted in finding bare skin to strike.

Ginny couldn't have explained why she was there. Most people had found refuge indoors, away from the bitter rain. Anyone who looked out at the street and saw the young pregnant women walking slowly through the rain would have made some critical comment, or quietly thought she was crazy.

She'd spent the morning at Phoenix House, the orphanage Harry had set up in Sirius' old house, inspired by little Teddy Lupin. She'd talked and played with the children there – most of them, like Teddy, orphans of war, but Ginny was fast finding out that there were countless reasons for a parent to give up their child.

She pressed a protective hand to her swollen abdomen, and admitted that she couldn't understand it. Though she loved the moments when one of the children found a home, and family, she couldn't understand what had made the biological parent abandon the child in the first place. The logic of it, she understood. There would be reasons, and some of them would be damn good. But she'd felt her baby move, and kick, she'd lain awake at night and pictured him, she'd spoken to him, sang to him. He was already hers, she already loved him, and so she couldn't understand how any one could experience this and then walk away from that child.

She would fight to the death to keep hers.

Shivvering from the cold, she knew she should get home. Find a dark alley and apparate. Get out of the rain, out of the cold.

But she liked the rain. She liked when it was soft and warm, she liked when it was cool and fast. She even liked it when it was like this; cold, harsh, unforgiving.

It was only because the baby kicked that she sighed and quickened her pace, searching for that alley. A part of her – perhaps the part of her that was still broken, that would always be a scared, hurt, sixteen year old who'd seen and done and lost far too much – wanted to linger in the rain. She'd done that a lot in the first year, she remembered. Stood in the rain, finding some kind of comfort from it. An odd way, really, to cope with the pain and fear and trauma. But it had been her way, and it had worked for her.

But she was no longer a young girl with haunted eyes and a broken heart. She was older, more whole, less tormented. She was heavily pregnant, and she had to think about what lingering in the cold, bitter rain would do to the baby. So she slipped into a dark alley, and spun into the blackness. When she appeared on her own doorstep, she had to throw out a hand to steady herself. She still wasn't used to apparating with the bump, and the extra weight threw her landing off.

She let herself into the house, dried herself off quickly. And decided, as the warmth of home enveloped her, to take a nap.

Wasn't Harry always telling her to rest? It amused her, how worried and protective her was, always urging her to sit, to rest, to nap, as though she were fatally injured rather than pregnant. Hadn't women managed pregnancy for centuries? And without a man forcing them to rest seventeen times a day. She wasn't the first, nor would she be the last, and sometimes it tested her patience to be treated like there was something wrong with her. But mostly, it was alright.

She curled up in the armchair, dragging a blanket over herself. And, thinking of the rain, and the past, she fell into sleep.

She was stood in the street again. Right outside Grimmauld Place, the way it had been before it had been filled with children. The way it had been, she somehow knew, before it had housed the order.

It was raining, not quite as harshly as earlier, but a thick, steady stream of it.

And it the street was empty, and silent but for the sounds the rain made. Uneasy, Ginny looked around, and then realised she was dreaming.

Just a dream, she told herself, trying to relax. Just a dream, nothing to worry about.

But she had suffered through some horrific dreams, and knew all too well how much they could scare and hurt, how effectively they could rip open old wounds and make them bleed again.

She heard the footsteps first, and spun to face the sound, her heart in her throat and her hand reaching instinctively for her wand. And then she froze, as she saw the source of the sound.

Sirius Black walked easily towards her, a half smile on his face, his hair thick and short and curling slightly from the rain. He was young, she realised, younger than she ever remembered him. And happier. His eyes lacked that haunted look she remembered, and instead held contentment.

"Sirius." She whispered it when he reached her, full of shock, thrilled at seeing him, and some part of her grieving for him all over again, knowing none of this was real.

"Hiya, Ginny." He said easily, leaning back against the wet fence.

"Hiya? That's really all you have to say?" There was stunned laughter in her voice, grief in her eyes. And she hugged him, hard, fitting years' worth of emotion into the single embrace. He hugged her back, then drew back to look at her.

"You look good, kid. A little fat, though." He grinned when she whacked his arm, and she found herself grinning back. "Seriously, though, pregnant? What are you now, like fourteen?"

"You're hilarious, Sirius. I've missed you."

"Yeah. I've missed you too. You've done pretty great though, haven't you? I'm so proud of you guys. You've done great."

She paused, tilted her head. "How do you know? Can you see us? How? From where?"

He grinned again. "That's not for you to know. Not for a long, long time. Don't think about death, Ginny. It's taken too much from you to steal your thoughts, too."

"I don't remember you sounding this smart before."

He laughed at that, and the sound of it delighted her. He'd been her friend, once, the kind of adult that didn't hide things from you, didn't bother telling you to leave the room when certain topics were brought up. The kind of adult who understood that there were things you needed to _know_, things you needed to face. The kind that knew that being a kid didn't mean you were unable to handle the horrors of life. He'd been her friend, and she'd grieved when he'd died, and missed him still.

"I wasn't this smart before. Being dead puts a new perspective on everything. How're you doing, kid? You worried me, for a while back there. I knew you were strong enough to survive it all, but still...I was worried you'd never make it through the other side."

The other side of what, Ginny wondered. Grief, pain, fear, anger? The broken heart and tortured soul?

"Me too." She murmured.

"You made it though. You always were a tough kid. Well, all the time I knew you, anyway. Which wasn't all that long, really."

"Do you regret that?" She asked. "Dying, I mean? Do you wish that you'd just – just stayed where you were that night, stayed away, stayed safe? You'd've been alive, you'd be alive now -"

"No. How could I have lived with myself if I'd left you lot to fight on your own? To fight grown wizards and witches," he face hardened, "that were cowardly enough to attack a bunch of kids. Not that you needed much help, of course. You were holding your own when we got there."

Though she met his smile, she remembered that night. Her own broken ankle, Hermione's unconsciousness, Ron's injuries and insanity. Holding their own well enough, she supposed, for the children they were, but probably not enough to live through it without the help.

"At first, I sort of wished none of it had happened. That Harry had never gone there that night, taken you lot with him. But, see, if he hadn't, if none of that had happened, I'd still be standing here. I'd still be dead. Death comes when it's meant to, Ginny. Maybe the way and the place can be changed, but the time? I wasn't meant to survive the war. And, even though it hurt you, neither was your brother."

She swallowed. "It still hurts. Losing him, and Tonks and Lupin, too, all in one go, it damn near broke me."

"It was meant that way. It's awful, Ginny, that your brother only got a couple of decades out of life before it ended, that little Teddy Lupin will have to grow up without his parents, but that's the way it was meant."

She could only nod. She wasn't sure if she believed that. "Do you...have you seen...?"

"Fred's OK, Ginny. He was so...full of life, so it's tragic that his life was so short. And it's awful, so incredibly awful, that you had to lose him, that your family had to lose him. But you don't have to worry about him, at all."

Because her eyes suddenly, unexpectedly, blurred with tears, she looked down. The rain had soaked her, but she wasn't cold.

"Hey, come on. I didn't mean to depress you."

"You haven't."

"Yeah, I have. Come on, tell me about this baby of yours. Not long to go, right?"

"Couple months. It's a boy. No one really believes me, but I _know_. I just know."

"Who'd know better?" He said easily, and she was reminded again of why he'd mattered to her. That easy belief, the faith.

"Harry wants to call him James. He hasn't mentioned it yet, but I can tell. He's just not sure how to say it, and he's worried I'll refuse."

"Will you?"

"James is a lovely name, and it means something to Harry." Ginny replied easily. "That's what we'll name our son."

"He'll be thrilled." Sirius murmured. "James. He'll be thrilled by it."

"You see him, too." Ginny replied quietly. "And Harry's mother, too, right? Lily. And -"

"Remus and Tonks, yes. Could you – could you make sure Teddy knows his parents love him, that they're always looking out for him? And that it...it breaks their hearts that they're not there with him. Just make sure he never doubts that."

"I will. Of course I will. Are you in some kind of afterlife, Sirius?"

He smiled a little. "I'm in some kind of in-between, Ginny. Those of us that can't quite let go, that are still tied to the people who live, we stay there. We wait there. Those that can let go, they go on, to someplace else. We'll all go there, one day."

"To an afterlife?"

"To a choice. Life's full of choices, why should death be different? Don't think about it, Ginny. You're too young to think about death."

"They're really all OK? Fred, and Tonks and Lupin, and you, and -"

"Death doesn't hurt the dead, Ginny. It's the people left behind who suffer."

She nodded, brushed rain and tears off of her face. "OK. I guess I needed to hear that."

"You're doing great, Ginny. Life's hard, and it's painful, and it's messy. Don't expect it to be perfect and easy. But it's also amazing, and wonderful, and incredible."

"At times." Ginny murmured.

"At times." Sirius nodded.

"Sirius? I, um, I had this idea, a little while ago. After I realised Harry wanted to name the baby James. I figured, um, your name would make a pretty good middle name for our son."

Something passed over his face, surprise and pleasure and pain.

"Would that...would that be OK with you?"

"Yes." He said quietly, smiling at her. "It would, if you want to. I'm just sorry I'm not going to get to meet this little guy." Hesitantly, he reached out, let his hand hover over her swollen stomach. "Can I...?" When she nodded, he lightly rested his hand on the bump. Instantly, the baby kicked, and Sirius' face lit up. "I'll always be watching out for him, you know. He'll never be alone. I'm glad Harry has you. I always hoped the two of you would end up together."

"Me too." She said with a little laugh, and he grinned at her. "Is this...is this really just a dream?"

"You already know the answer to that, Ginny. This being a dream doesn't mean I'm not real. You know better than that."

"It's ending now, though, isn't it?"

He nodded, his smile turning a little sad. "Yeah, it's ending. You'll be awake in a few seconds."

"So I should say goodbye. I didn't get to last time."

"I know. I'm sorry."

She hugged him again, clung to him. "I really, really miss you. And everyone. Sometimes I can forget, put it aside. But it's always there."

"I know. I know."

She felt the dream ending, felt it slipping away, even as she felt his embrace. And then, the next thing she knew, the rain was gone; she was dry and warm and curled up in the armchair.

She shivered, once. Her dreams were never so vivid, never so real. Except...she frowned, remembering another dream, not so long ago. A half forgotten dream, but the only other time she dreamt so vividly.

She rubbed slow circles over her stomach, looking down at it. "Those hormones, huh? Crazy." And even so, she knew that wasn't it.

She baby kicked, hard, against her hand, and she smiled, just a little sadly. "Got a hell of a kick on you there...James Sirius Potter."

It sounded right, she realised. It sounded perfect. As soon as Harry got home, she'd bring up the subject of names, since he seemed so reluctant to do so.

She laid her head back, closed her eyes, and ran through the dream. It was already fading, the details blurring. But she remembered enough.


	165. Blood and Death

**I think I'm neglecting this lately, sorry guys. I've been busy, and blocked. So this isn't great, but hopefully it's better than nothing.**

**165. Death and Blood**

He was a Death Eater. Servant of the Dark Lord. Powerful and feared, respected and protected. He had a family, one who could be counted on more than his actual family ever could be.

At least, that's what he'd tried to convince himself.

Regulus had thought Voldemort would be able to give him all the things he'd ever wanted. Power, respect, protection, a family to count on. He'd thought joining would make him feel...different. Better.

But it hadn't. God, God it hadn't. Instead of making him feel safe and protected, it made him feel terrified and exposed. Instead of making him feel powerful and respected, it made him feel weak and pathetic. Instead of providing him with an infallible family, it had taught him that no one, absolutely no one could be trusted.

He wasn't one of them. He wasn't a killer. He didn't have that in him.

And, unlike those around him, he found no joy in the pain and suffering of others.

Sirius had always told him he was weak. Too weak to stand up to their parents, too weak to see the lies his family lived, too weak to see how badly he was screwing up his life.

He wished he'd listened. With everything he had, Regulus wished he'd listened.

He was perched on the edge of the bath in his bathroom, a solitary candle providing the only light. He didn't want light. He didn't want to see himself. He didn't want to see the bundle of bloodied clothes he'd tossed into the bath. Though he'd soaked them, hoping to erase the scent of blood and sweat and death from them, he knew he'd never wear them again. Once he stopped shaking, once he could actually turn and look at them again, he'd burn them.

And wish the memories could be erased so easily.

He'd been involved in a raid. He'd assumed, so naively, that it was justified. That the house they'd been sent to held something of value to the Dark Lord. That the people inside it were somehow enemies to him.

And then they'd entered the building, and he'd realised that it was some kind of safe house. That there were people hiding inside that the Dark Lord wanted dead, and that this was their sole reason for being here.

He stumbled back in horror, knowing he'd been sent here to murder. Simply to murder. And knowing, as he saw the terrified faces of the five people they'd burst in on – three men and two women – that they were being punished for something small. For not joining the ranks when the Dark Lord had wanted them to, or for insulting him somehow. Something small, something that they probably hadn't realised would condemn them to death.

One of the Death Eaters beside him had killed one of the men. Using surprise as an advantage, he killed him swifly, easily, and one of the women screamed in terror and horror and grief. And then, the four that were left faced the six Death Eaters.

They began to fight. It was loud and messy and chaotic and one of the other Death Eaters fell, lifeless. Regulus watched in horror, his wand raised but his mind blank.

And then he heard a sound that seemed to puncture his heart, and made his stomach clench in horror.

A baby's wail.

There was a baby in the house. A baby, an innocent, tucked away upstairs, unaware of the danger it was in.

"Please." One of the women looked at him, even as she shot a curse at one of the other. "Please. We have – our children -"

Regulus looked from her to the other Death Eaters. None of them were close enough to hear, paying enough attention to see. He swallowed, and the baby cried out again.

"Go. Get them out." He hissed, and prayed he hadn't just signed his own death warrant. The woman shot him a surprised, and grateful look, and ran.

He didn't really believe she'd make it to the stairs. But somehow, she did. And Regulus still couldn't move. He couldn't move to help the women, though some part of him screamed out for him to do so, to save the children. And he couldn't join the fight, though another part of him was yelling for him to do so, and save himself.

If one of the other Death Eaters were to notice, he'd be a dead man.

And then the unthinkable happened. One of the men disarmed one of the Death Eaters. And, even as the man reached up to catch the wand, the Death Eater drew a dagger from his buckle and, with one step forward, one swift move, he sliced the man's jugular.

Regulus would never forget the blood. The amount of it, the smell of it, the feel of it. He'd been standing too close to the man to avoid it.

And so he staggered back, against the wall, and knew he was a pale and shaking and couldn't stop himself. The Death Eater with the dagger shot him a look, rolled his eyes, but made no comment.

And turned back to the fight.

It lasted forever, and yet only minutes. And then, there was silence.

"They fought more than we expected." One of the others commented, looking around the room. Two dead men, two dead women, and two dead Death Eaters.

"There was another woman. Where did she go?"

The one with the dagger narrowed his eyes. "She must have ran. I'll search the house." He shot another look at Regulus, then looked at the other two surviving Death Eaters. "One of you get the kid home, will you? He doesn't seem to like blood too much." There was both amusement and disgust in his tone, as he started for the stairs, wand in one hand, blood stained dagger in the other.

Regulus felt his stomach heave.

"I'm not much a fan of it myself." The other Death Eater muttered as he grabbed Regulus's arm. "You'll get more used to it, kid."

_I hope not_, Regulus thought, closing his eyes as they apparated. _God, I hope not_.

Two hours had passed since he'd staggered to the bathroom, stripped his clothes, furiously tried to clean himself. Two hours, and he was still shaking.

Had the women gotten out? Had she gotten the children to safety? If not, if she'd been unable to or tried to hide, those children would have had their throats slit.

The image of that had him finally shifting towards the toilet and throwing up. He didn't realise he was sobbing until his stomach had finally stopped heaving. And there, in the dim room with bloodied clothes in the bath, he curled up on the floor and sobbed like a baby.

What had he got himself into?


	166. Wait

**It's been a while, sorry. Been busy with starting uni and a few other things. This isn't very long, or that great either, but I've been struggling to write much of anything lately. Hopefully once things settle down a bit, I'll get back into it.**

**Thanks for all the reviews, of course.**

**166. Wait**

"How did you know?" Adelaide Lupin, all of fourteen years old, looked up at Lily curiously. "When Scorpius asked you to marry him, how did you know it was right? How did you know he was the one for you?"

"I...I just did. It wasn't even a question, there was no doubt. I loved him, and I knew he loved me."

"You were really young, though. You'd only just left school."

"I know. And it was scary, and I worried about it. But it felt right. I knew we could make it work."

"How did you know he was right for you? I mean, you were only a year older than me when you got together. How did you know he was the right guy to spend the rest of your life with? How did you know he was...the right guy to give your heart to?"

Lily looked at her, tilted her head. "Is there a guy, Addy?"

"No. I was just wondering. How do you know its right?"

"Hmm. Don't settle. That's the most important thing. This is your life, your heart, and you should save it for the guy that's worth it. Wait for – wait for the guy that looks at you, just looks at you and smiles, because he's so thrilled that you're his. Wait for the guy who'll hold your hand or put his arm around you even when you're with his friends. Hell, the guy who wants to show you off to his friends. Wait for the guy that calls you beautiful, sometimes so genuinely that in that moment you believe it, and sometimes so casually that you believe _he _believes it. Wait for the guy that tells you you're amazing, that you're all he wants. Who randomly tells you that you're pretty, or hot, or attractive or sexy, out of no where. Wait for the guy that misses you as soon as you're gone, who respects you and cares for you and makes you happy. The guy who'd sooner die than hurt you, the guy who – who'll give you his jacket even if he's cold. Just silly little stuff. And the guy who you think is amazing, the guy who you make happy, the guy who you look at and can't believe he's yours. The guy who you miss when he's not there, the one you want around all the time, the one who makes you giddy and nervous and secure all at once. The one who makes you smile, and laugh, the one who'd be worth your tears but would never make you cry. The one who takes your breath away. The one you don't want to live without. Don't give your heart to anyone less."

"What if you don't find that guy?"

"You will. Maybe you won't find him in school, Addy. Maybe it'll take a while. But you'll find him, and you'll understand." Lily shrugged. "Maybe you won't marry him, maybe you won't spend the rest of your life with him. But you can still love him and know that he's worth your love. Even if it doesn't work out and breaks your heart, wouldn't it be better to know he was worth it, he was good enough?"

"Are you still happy with Scorpius then? Is everything you said still true?"

"Yep. It's not always easy, and it's not always perfect. He's not perfect, and neither am I. It's not always great, there's times he pisses me off, and times I do the same to him. He's flawed, and I'm flawed. There's been times when I thought we wouldn't make it, times I was sure that what we have was broken. But there was never a time I stopped loving him, or that I stopped being willing to fight for us."

"There's no such thing as the perfect guy, or the perfect relationship, is there?"

"No, there really isn't." Lily replied with a smile. "But you'll know the right guy for you, Adelaide, when you find him. Trust me. Don't put all your hopes and dreams on the first guy who smiles at you, but then, you might be lucky and find that guy first time around. Who knows. Don't worry so much about it, 'kay? It'll happen when it happens, whether that's sooner or later than you want."


	167. Funeral Plans

**So short, I know. Still struggling with writer's block sadly.**

**Thanks, as always, to everyone who reviewed.**

**167. Funeral Plans**

He'd made no plans for a funeral. If he'd ever had any thoughts about what songs he wanted played, what flowers he'd have preferred, or any such details, he'd shared them with no one.

The details of his funeral had never mattered to him – after all, death was not something he had to think about, worry about. He'd lived for two decades, had so much time left to live before he had to think of death.

He'd been too young to die.

That wasn't true, of course. Death does not discriminate between age or gender or race or religion. Death comes for everyone, whenever and however it chooses.

So Fred Weasley's youth offered no protection, and, intellectually, he'd known it.

But he was young, and so death was a far off possibility, something that would happen one day in the future. Not now. Never now, when it wasn't even necessary for him to shave regularly, when he'd never fallen in love, or travelled the world, or built the house he kept designing in his head.

Never now, when he had so much more living left to do.

He'd never seriously considered that he'd die while in that castle, while in that fight.

If he had, things would have been different. He'd have said so many things, told so many people that he loved them. He'd never really said it while alive, never really seen the necessity. His family knew he loved them, why bother to say it?

He'd have regretted that, had he had time to realise he was dying.

As it was, death came so suddenly, so surprisingly, he hadn't realised what was happening. There was no chances for regrets, for reflection, for _anything._

But even if he'd know that his breaths were running out, that his heartbeat was little more than a countdown, he'd never have thought of a funeral, never have made plans.

What would be the point? He'd be beyond knowing, beyond caring.

Funerals, the ceremony and details of them, were not for the dead. They were for the living.

So it was Molly who chose the flowers, Arthur who selected the songs. George chose the clothes his brother would be buried in, his eyes dry and his mind blank, helped by Bill who stared dully at his brother's clothes for more than ten minutes, thinking over and over that Fred would never wear any of them again.

And that had been hard, looking at all the things that signalled life – the clothes, the comb tossed on the dresser, the unmade bed, the shoes kicked into a corner – and knowing none of them would be used again.

But they'd gotten through it, done what needed to be done, because there's little option otherwise.

He'd have approved. Ron thought Fred would have liked the flowers well enough, would have approved of the songs. He'd have been touched and stunned by the sheer amount of mourners.

As far as funerals went, Fred couldn't have asked for better.


	168. Dependency

**More of my ramblings. Started with more post-war trauma kind of stuff, and for some reason moved to being about love. The fun of sitting down and writing whatever comes into your head, I guess.**

**Thanks for all the reviews, guys.**

**168. Dependency**

She still has those moments. Those panicked, terrified moments in the middle of the night when she wakes up and for just a moment, she's right back in the war. Right back with the fear and the worry and stress of it all.

It's been almost three months, and she still has those moments. Still has the nightmares. At one point, clawing her way out of a nightmare became the normal way to wake up. It's not that bad any more, but the nightmares come once a week or so.

She sleeps better on the nights Ron sneaks into her room, into her bed, slipping one arm around her waist, the other under her neck to rest down her torso, almost like a seatbelt. It makes her feel safe, and secure, and so she sleeps easy. Spooning, she believes it's called, the way they curl up, and she rather adores it, the warmth and comfort of him, the way they fit together. Sometimes, he'll let go of her, roll onto his back, and she'll roll too, to rest her head on his shoulder - and his arms, even in sleep, will wrap around her again - and she'll let his heartbeat lull her back to sleep. She rather loves sleeping that way, too.

There's a comfort in having him there, easing her mind while she sleeps. Sometimes, if they lay with him on his back, her head on his shoulder, he waits until he thinks she's asleep, and strokes her hair. Gently, slowly, tenderly.

She feels loved. He comes to her, because he wants to sleep with her next to him, and because he wants to bring her comfort. He wraps his arms around her because he knows it makes her feel safe, and because he wants her near him. He strokes her hair purely out of affection.

It's a new side to him, and one she is fast coming to depend on. It worries her, the way she _needs_ him. She loves him, of course she does - has done since was little more than a child, in the way a young girl loves her friends, and somewhere along the way she fell _in_ love with him, the complex, intense love a woman feels - but she is fast coming to depend on him. She counts on him to be there during the day, to spend time with, to talk to. She counts on him to hold her hand, when they're walking in the street or just sitting around the house. She counts on him to hold her when she needs it - and who'd have thought he'd learn to recognise when she needed it? Not every time, sure, but he catches the subtle signs more often than she'd ever have believed.

She depends on him, needs him, and the fact that she can only really sleep easy when he's beside her is the most worrying sign. Granted, he's there most nights, only staying way when he thinks he may get caught by his mother. Molly may approve of their relationship, may love Hermione, may be perfectly okay with Hermione still staying with them, despite having her own home - recognising, Hermione assumes, that Ron and Ginny and Harry are relying on Hermione for emotional support. But Ron - blushing adorably - told Hermione that it may be best if Molly wasn't aware of him sleeping in her room, since she might not approve.

Hermione goes along with that, letting him believe Molly is totally oblivious. She isn't, of course. There's very little that happens in the Burrow that Molly is unaware of. She knows very well where her son spends his nights. And she also knows that sometimes, sleeping alone is the worst kind of loneliness, and that the presence of another person, the warmth and contact and breathing and heartbeat of them, is a comfort. So she, too, goes along with the pretence, and hopes it will bring some comfort to the two of them, and help them both sleep easier.

Maybe she should move back home, though, Hermione thinks. Her parents want her there. Though they understand her need to be with her friends, they want her home. And she misses it, misses home, misses living with her parents, so much that she can almost convince herself that all she needs is to move back in, and she'll feel safe and whole and normal again.

This isn't true, though. She knows this by the way the house feels when she goes to see her parents. All her childhood things and memories, all those familiar sights and sounds and smells, seemed different. It had taken her a while to understand why - though her home was the same, she was not, and so she didn't fit there quite the same way she had. Her home no longer feels like her home, and there is little safety and comfort there. The nights that she's stayed there, in her old room, her old bed, she's slept terribly, and not only because Ron was not beside her.

Everything's the same there, except her, and so everything's different. So however much she misses home, and her parents, and the way things used to be, she knows that moving back won't change that, won't really help at all.

Surely it should be easier now? Surely she should be sleeping easier, living easier? Surely she should be feeling more like herself, more free and safe and…not feeling this sense of helplessness?

With a sigh, Hermione rolled over in the bed, twisting the covers. Though she despised herself a little for it, for the pathetic desperation and dependency she was sure it showed, she was listening out for footsteps.

Just when she'd decided that Ron was staying in his own room tonight - just when she'd started to feel the disappointment and the bitter twist of resentment, as though he'd let her down by not coming to her - she heard a stair creak quietly. And then there were the slow, careful footsteps, that were so familiar now she'd recognise the sound anywhere. And the door opened slowly, letting light slant into the room before he slipped inside and closed it behind him. He fumbled his way to the bed in the darkness, and she felt the brief cold air as he shifted the cover to climb in beside her.

She didn't speak, or move. Though she felt foolish, as though she was playing games, she didn't want him to know she'd been waiting up, unable to rest until he was beside her. Just because she was being so pathetically dependent didn't mean he had to know about it. So she didn't acknowledge him, except for shifting when his arms came around her, to settle her back against his chest. He rested his cheek against her neck, and the closeness of him brought such comfort, such thrill, such affection for him, that she didn't care how pathetic she was, how dependent, how insecure. She didn't care how scary being in love was, or how much she was worried that his feelings would change, or weren't as deep as her own. Nothing else mattered, but the feel of him against her, the warmth, the safety, the love.

She slipped easily into a dreamless sleep. For a long time, while she slept, Ron listened to her breathing, to her heartbeat, and worried, just a little, about how terrifyingly intense his feelings for her were, and the fact that he could only sleep properly when he had his arms around her.


	169. Such Is

**Repetitive, I know. I just really wanted to write, and this is all that came out. **

**169. Such Is**

"It still feels…I don't know. Wrong. We're practically family." Rose shrugged.

"But you're not family. You happen to have parents who are friends with each other, and to have spent a lot of time together growing up." Lily replied simply.

"He calls our grandparents Grandma and Granddad." Rose argued flatly.

"Because they have a soft spot for Luna. It's an honorary title. There's still no _relation_ there, no bloodline, no -"

"Wouldn't you say we've been raised like cousins, though?"

"No. I wouldn't. I'd say you've been raised like friends, Rose, and some of the best relationships grow from friendships. You've gotta be friends as well as lovers anyway, otherwise what's the point? If you don't have that friendship, the affection, then what do you have?"

"I've known him his whole life."

"So you'll skip all that getting to know each other stuff. They'll be no weird surprises a few months down the line. You know all his flaws and bad habits, so they'll be no disillusionment there. And you know that he's an amazing guy, so you'll never have to doubt him."

"He's three years younger than me." Rose muttered. Lily smiled, knowing that the change of argument meant she was winning.

"So? Scorpius is two years older than me. Teddy is -"

"I know. I know all this. I still can't get past it. He's just finishing _school_ Lily. My boyfriend is a schoolboy!"

Lily couldn't help snorting out a laugh, and didn't bother to disguise it. "Okay, when you phrase it like that…C'mon, Rose, he'll be done with school in a matter of weeks. Maybe you'll feel more secure then, when you can see him more often. It's hard to believe completely in what someone says they feel for you, when you're away from them. When you don't see the way they look at you and smile at you, when you don't see them watching you when they think you don't see them, when you don't see the amazement on their face after you kiss them. That's a hell of a reassurance."

Rose smiled in spite of herself. "You have that with Scorpius."

"You have that with Lorcan, Rose. I see it all the time. And you're the same. You love him, don't you?"

Rose opened her mouth, and closed it again. Then she sighed, closed her eyes, and nodded. "I do. Not like before, when we were friends. It's different. It's more. Gosh, Lily, I miss him like crazy. I've never missed anyone like I do him. He leaves, or I do, and it's like a piece of me is missing. It aches. I think about him far, far too much. He's just always there, in my head, and I talk about him all the time, just silly little things. Sometimes, he'll say something funny, or cute, or - or he'll just look adorable, and I get…I get giddy, almost light-headed, with the love I feel for him. I get nervous before I see him, I don't know what to expect, how to act - I've never been so uncertain in my life. I feel…I feel insecure and self-conscious and I doubt that he means all this stuff he says - and at the same time, he makes me feel safe and loved and wanted, and when he says something to me, about how he feels or how he sees me, I believe him, and I fall for him all over again. I'm a mess." Bleak laughter touched her voice. "I'm an emotional wreck."

"But you're happy. You're happier than I've ever seen you."

"Yeah." Rose sighed, pushed a hand through her hair. "He makes me happy. Except when he makes me miserable."

"Such is love." Lily replied dryly, and coaxed a laugh from her cousin. "He loves you, too, Rose. He's so completely in love with you. And it hurts him, when you get like this, when you doubt him, when you pick at your relationship to find the faults. I know you're struggling. But it hurts him, and he doesn't deserve that. He's crazy about you."

"I adore him, Lily. I just don't know how to handle it."

"You'll figure it out sweetie. You always do. You're the smartest of us."


	170. Disappointment

**Wow. I didn't mean to take so long to update. Sorry guys, been crazy busy with uni work, and some personal stuff. But, deadlines are all met now, I don't have to worry about uni at all until after Christmas, and the personal stuff, well we'll just stop letting that interfere with writing. Hopefully. **

**I wish I had something better to offer you guys, but this is all my blocked little mind could come up with. So, hopefully I'll manage something better in the next week, but if not, sorry, and Merry Christmas.**

**170. Disappointment**

He was a dead man.

Fred Weasley's Grandma Molly had certain views on the world, on morals, and on her grandkids. And his Grandma Molly had a hell of a temper.

Three months ago, he'd pissed her off incredibly.

That hadn't been a surprise to anyone, though. He had, after all, returned from a last-minute holiday to Las Vegas with a wife.

His decision to take his girlfriend to Las Vegas for a week had earned a few raised eyebrows, some jokes about losing all his money, and some envy from his nephews, who he'd entertained with stories of the wizarding casinos, and the wizards who liked to frequent the muggle casinos and alter muggles' luck. It hadn't, however, generated much surprise. His family were used to him following his impulses, used to him disappearing to, well, wherever he'd wanted to go. They were also used to his changing girlfriends. Fred Weasley was surrounded by love, by strong couples held together by mutual love and respect, by long-lasting relationships. He understood them, he respected them.

He didn't want one for himself. Not yet. One day, sure, he'd be happy enough finding something like that, something that his parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents and some of his cousins had found. He'd be happy with a few kids, a nice house, and the same woman forever.

But not yet. He was having too much fun with life. And he loved women. Plural. Though he was never with more than one at a time, though he tried to be as clear as possible about wanting to keep things casual, he adored women, adored having girlfriends.

He just didn't particularly want to keep any of them forever. And if one started getting too serious, or if he just decided to move on, then he'd let them go as gently as possible

He'd been with Anna for two months. Longer, actually, than a lot of his relationships. His family had liked her well enough, but they'd long since stopped getting to know his current girlfriend much more than learning her name. And he'd thought a lot of her. She was sexy, smart, and fun. And, she was independent, looking for nothing more serious than he was.

Which didn't explain, at all, how they'd ended up married. It had started, after much alcohol, as a joke. Watching the muggles marry in one of the tacky chapels. And then, somehow, they'd ended up doing the same thing, giggling like children and making vows that neither of them should have made.

They'd both been mortified the next day, when they'd woken with hangovers and plastic wedding rings. They'd argued, trying to blame each other, before admitting it had been a mutual mistake, and that neither knew quite how it had happened.

Eventually, they'd decided, what the hell, see how it goes. He didn't love her, and she didn't love him, but they both agreed that maybe, one day, they could do. And they both respected marriage enough to agree to at least give it a shot.

They'd been ashamed, both of them. That had been their main reason. Better to pretend that they could make this a real marriage, than admit that they'd made a mockery of an institution they both believed in, that their families both believed in.

His grandma had been furious. The rest of his family varied from surprised amusement to exasperation, and everything in between. His mother had been clearly disappointed in him. His father had shaken his head and told him that some things weren't meant to be made a joke out of.

But Molly had been furious. He hadn't expected anything less.

The only thing saving him from being murdered was his insistence that he and Anna were going to put effort into making their marriage work. And though he didn't think anyone – himself included – actually believed that it would last, Molly had, eventually, stopped looking at him with anger, disappointment, and sorrow on her face.

She had, after all, wanted all her grandchildren in happy, stable, long-lasting relationships with someone they loved.

But three months later, they'd finally admitted it. He and Anna had, with no anger, some sorrow and regret, but little surprise, ended things. They'd stayed together longer, much longer, than they would've without that drunken mistake.

It hadn't even been a real marriage. Yeah, she'd moved most of her stuff into his place, slept there, lived there, but she'd kept her own flat, even gone back to it whenever they'd argued. There hadn't been much point in her giving the place up when they both known she'd end up back there anyway. Pointless to even pretend they thought they could make it work.

He sort of regretted it. The marriage, the failure, the fact that he was now on his way to the Burrow to disappoint his grandmother all over again.

But it had been an experience, and he tried to live his life without regretting anything. So he'd get over it, and he could only hope that his grandmother did, too.

Of course she would, eventually. He'd only drunkenly married a girl he'd barely knew, disrespecting something his grandmother believed whole heartedly in, held onto that marriage for three months, pretending it was all going well when a blind man could have seen where it was heading, and then, ultimately, failed.

Yeah, he was a dead man.

But, well, they'd had _some _good times, some great times, in fact. It had been fun while it lasted, hadn't it?


	171. Christmas Jumpers

**Well, it's last minute, but I managed another update before Christmas. And, a Christmas themed one, too. **

**Happy Christmas.**

**171. Christmas Jumpers**

_1998._

She hadn't told Arthur. It was odd to have something hidden from him like this. Not that it was a secret, exactly, not that she was taking any particular measures to keep it hidden. Arthur would never look through her things, never think of going through her chest of drawers. So he'd never open the bottom on, never see the half-finished jumper, or the carefully wrapped little tokens. Never turn the gift tag, and see Fred's name.

The first one had been an accident. Molly had bought it without even thinking, some part of her mind automatically adding it to her other purchases with a vague, that'll do for Fred. She'd been home, unpacking her shopping bags, before she'd realised.

She'd cried then, of course. Sat right at the kitchen table and wept. The loss had hit her all over again. So she'd sobbed, clutching the gift in her hands. Then she'd taken it upstairs with the others, set it down on her bed while she wrapped presents she'd bought for her other children. And then, after looking at it for a long, long moment, she wrapped that one, too. What else could she do? She couldn't bring herself to return it, couldn't have coped with that. And she could hardly give it to one of her other children, could she, knowing it had been meant for Fred? So she wrapped it, labelled it, and stashed it in her drawer.

The second one, she'd been aware. It hadn't, exactly, been deliberate, she hadn't consciously decided she would buy another present for Fred, but she had been aware, when she picked it up, that she was going to buy it, wrap it, and add it to the other.

The jumper, well, that had been habit more than anything. She'd knitted him a Christmas jumper every year of his life. Stopping now, in the first year of his death, would have been too heartbreaking. So she'd finished the others, first, and then started his, crying a little with the knowledge that he'd never wear it.

A part of her wanted to tell her husband, to share the fresh grief that Christmas was bringing. But she knew he was struggling, too, as were the children, and she was sure that, as a wife, as a mother, it was her duty to stay strong for the rest of them. To do what needed to be done, to make sure everyone got through it.

So she hid the presents, and didn't mention it to anyone.

She finished the jumper on Christmas Eve morning. And took it with her to her boy's grave. Sat on the cold ground beside it, she talked to him, holding the soft bundle of wool in both hands. She didn't cry. She hadn't cried at his grave since the first month after his death, knowing that he'd never liked to see her cry. It seemed somehow wrong to cry here, knowing he would have hated to see it.

"Merry Christmas, son." She whispered as she stood to leave. She took the jumper home with her, hid it with the other presents.

And prepared herself to get through, and get her family though, their first Christmas broken.

_1999._

She hadn't intended to do it again. Though last year's presents were still in her bottom drawer, still wrapped and labelled and waiting to be opened, by someone far beyond opening them, she hadn't intended to do it again.

Then she'd seen it, the perfect present for him, and sighed a little as she picked it up. She felt a little foolish as she paid for it, especially when the cheerful cashier had asked if it was a gift, and who it was for, telling Molly that she was sure her son would love it. The young girl, Molly told herself as her heart tore, wasn't to know that her son would never see the gift, never form any opinion on it. The young girl would never know how much pain such knowledge brought. And Molly hoped that innocent young girl would never find out how it felt, either.

She felt a little sad as she wrapped the gift, taking care with it, making sure it looked perfect. The paper would never be ripped. Fred used to tear it apart so fast, eager to see what it was concealing. He'd tear the paper to shreds, somehow managing to scatter it all over.

When she heard the front door open and close, heard footsteps below, she hurriedly put the present away with the others, and felt and strangely guilty for the secret.

She added another jumper to the drawer less than a week later, and, two days before Christmas, another small gift.

And on Christmas morning, she glanced, several times, at the drawer, her heart aching.

_2000._

She was determined not to, this year. Silly to keep buy presents for a dead son. He was never coming back, and, though it had broken her heart, she'd long since accepted that. Her boy was gone, and all the Christmas presents in the world were no good to him.

A week before Christmas, she'd completed all her shopping, and all her jumpers, having gotten an early start on them this year. Alone in the house, she opened that bottom drawer, took out the presents one by one, the shiny paper dulled now, and told herself that she shouldn't keep them any longer. She should give them away, perhaps. Not to family members, no, she couldn't use them as actual gifts. Donate them, maybe, to a hospital or some such place.

Then, with a sigh, she placed them all carefully in the drawer. She wasn't quite ready to let go. Fred was dead, yes, and that was unchangeable. But he was still her son.

She started another jumper. Maybe she'd known all along that she would. No more buying presents, no, but the jumper? How could she not?

So she knitted the jumper, wrapped it carefully, and hid it with the others. And knew she would continue to do so, for the rest of her life.


	172. Alone

**Because you don't actually have to be alone to feel it.**

**172. Alone**

"Are you okay?" Neville asked quietly.

She almost wanted to laugh. Okay? She couldn't remember what "okay" felt like. She couldn't imagine ever feeling "okay" again. She almost wanted to scream that at him, that she'd never be okay again, none of them ever would, how could they ever, ever be okay again?

But she didn't laugh, didn't scream. She only nodded, and refused to meet his gaze. If she met his eyes, he might realise just how close to breaking she was. He might see the tears that she couldn't quite prevent gathering in the corners of her eyes – though they wouldn't fall, not a single one, she refused to allow it – might see her mouth tremble, just a little. She kept her hands clasped tightly together, so he wouldn't notice how they shook.

He waited a long moment, looking at her, and when she still didn't look at him, he sighed a little and moved on. Checking on someone else, Ginny thought. Always checking on everyone else, looking after them, holding them while they cried. He'd apparently decided it was his responsibility to lead them, keep them as safe as possible, and be there when their emotions got too much. She doubted this was how he'd planned on spending his last year of school, but he gave every appearance of handing it well. But appearances could be – and often were – deceiving, which is why she refused to break on him. He had his own problems, his own worries, and he didn't need some stupid, hysterical girl sobbing all over him.

And that's all she was, really. A stupid, over-emotional girl, who was in way over her head with no idea how to swim. As silently as she could, she slipped out of the room, heading back for Gryffindor Tower. She wanted her bed. She wouldn't sleep – it had been fifty three hours since she'd last slept, and though she was exhausted, though she wanted to sleep, her body refused to cooperate – but she would have gladly hidden away under the covers and tried to pretend none of this was happening.

She made it to the tower without any event; though Neville would later tell her off for wandering around on her own – D.A rule that no one should ever be out in the castle alone – and tell her that her recklessness worried him, she hadn't even thought about the danger she'd put herself in by being in the corridors alone. Why would she? Danger was second nature now. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt safe.

Her dorm was empty, and since most of the students like to be in the common room until they absolutely had to go to bed – safety in numbers, she supposed, or the illusion of it, at least – she knew it would remain empty for a long while yet. She tugged off her robes, crawled under the covers, and finally gave in.

Her sobs were silent, her body curled into a ball, while tears poured from overtired eyes.

She was so alone. God, god she was so incredibly alone. Neville tried, of course, to be there for her as much as possible, and she would always be grateful for that – sometimes, she thought he was the only thing keeping her sane – but he was all she had, and his time, his attention, was far too in demand.

So she was alone. Last year, just a single short year ago, she hadn't been. She'd had her family, she'd had her friends, she'd had her boyfriend. And now look at her. She was cut off from her family – the letters she sent and received said little more than that they were still alive, as they dare not include anything more personal, not in letters that were being read before they reached their destination – and though she knew they were there, the lack of contact meant they weren't really _there_. Neville was the only friend she had left. Hermione was off doing God knows what, assuming she was still alive, Luna had been taken captive – the main reason for Ginny's current struggle to sleep – and they still didn't know where she was, what had happened to her. And any other friends she'd had were either hiding, missing, keeping their distance from her and the trouble she tended to cause, or dealing with their own problems.

As far her boyfriend, she couldn't think about Harry without her heart aching. She knew why he'd ended things with her, and she knew why he'd gone, taking her brother and one of her best friends. But it still hurt, and however stupid she told herself it was, she couldn't quite get over it. It felt like rejection – the break up, and the fact that they'd left without her – and that still stung. And she missed him. So much it made her stomach hurt. Added to missing Ron, and Hermione, to worrying about them, her emotions were a tangled mess.

And she kept _remembering_. Ridiculous, so incredibly ridiculous, to keep remembering stupid moments. Sitting outside in the sun, by the lake, talking and kissing and cuddling. The way she'd feel her face light up when he walked towards her, knowing he was going to kiss her hello, and take her hand, and look at her in that way that seemed like he was actually glad she was his. Her heart speeding up when he'd kiss her, and keep kissing her. The first time they'd argued – just a little thing, just a silly thing – and frustrated each other incredibly.

She loved him. It terrified her, made her feel stupid and pathetic, but she couldn't keep denying it. She loved him, and knowing he didn't feel the same made her feel even worse. They'd never really talked about it, about how they felt about each other, but she was pretty certain he didn't feel nearly as much for her. If anything. Did she actually matter to him at all?

Probably not. She couldn't hold it against him. There were bigger things to think about. Worrying about her boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, whatever the hell he was – was incredibly stupid, considering what was going on.

But she couldn't help it. She was still human, still a teenage girl, and she couldn't help the way she thought or felt. She loved him, and she hated him for that.

Curled up in her bed, exhausted, no longer crying – she didn't have the energy for it – she thought of love, of war, of death, of fear.

And of the loneliness that was threatening to tip her over the edge.

She was alone. She was completely alone, and there was nothing she could do about it.


	173. Worries

**You guys are awesome. Don't forget it.**

**This chapter, however, is not so awesome. But I've had absolutely no new ideas, and this is the best I could do. Sorry.**

**173. Worries**

She wasn't good enough.

It was stupid to be worrying about this. Especially now. She wasn't one of _those _girls, she didn't sit around crying over a stupid guy. She had bigger things to worry about – war, and exams, and homework – and simply didn't have the spare time to sit around getting upset because some stupid boy preferred some other girl.

But, oh, it _hurt_. She'd had no idea he could hurt her so easily. When had she given him that kind of power over her? And, and he hadn't even meant to. He probably didn't even realise he had. How was he supposed to know that being all over Lavender Brown would cut at her heart so deeply?

But she'd thought...hoped, really, that he was finally starting to see – well. Stupid to hope, really. She just wasn't good enough. She wasn't pretty, or hot, or sexy, and she wasn't even funny or charming or sweet. Hermione knew all of this, and, though it bothered her and often upset her to see guys gravitating straight towards other girls, girls that were everything she wasn't, she'd long since accepted it. And it wasn't like no one had ever been interested in her. Viktor had. But, well, she'd seen pretty girls, confident girls, Parvati and Lavender and all the others, flit from boy to boy, from relationship to relationship, flirtation to flirtation. She'd seen boys checking them out, shooting admiring glances at their legs, their chests.

Hermione looked down at her own chest, wondering, before she could stop herself, if Ron would've noticed her more, noticed her as a girl, rather than his mate, if she had bigger breasts. Lavender's were bigger, and she was certain Ron noticed _hers_.

Disgusted, with herself for getting to upset, and with him, for preferring Lavender and her three-cup-sizes bigger boobs, Hermione punched her pillow, hard, then swiped angrily at the tears on her face.

She wasn't good enough. And she was so sick of it. Not good enough for the wizarding world, with its pureblood values – no matter what she did, how hard she studied, how high her grades were, something as simple as her bloodlines seemed to mean she'd never quite be good enough. Not good enough for the muggle world, with her parents' friends always asking her how she was doing at school, and obviously not believing her when she lied to them – she couldn't tell them all about her 'Outstanding' O.W.L results, so she'd had to translate that into muggle grades, lying about A* G.C., but couldn't offer and real details or proof. She wasn't good enough for the girls around her, with their little cliques and weird values and priorities, who made comments about her lack of make-up. And she wasn't good enough for the boys, either. Not even Ron.

She brushed away more tears, angry with herself for getting so upset. Bigger problems, she reminded herself. Priorities. Maybe she did want a relationship, a boyfriend, someone to hold her hand and cuddle up with her and kiss her and tell her everything she wanted to hear. Maybe she wanted to feel wanted. But there'd be no point in any of that if they were all going to die.

Back to reality, she told herself firmly. Back to the war, to working out everything she needed to work out, to concentrating on surviving.

She slipped into the bathroom, splashed water on her face and stared at herself for a long moment in the mirror. Then did what she – and thousands of other girls – often did. She pushed the insecurities to one side, and pretended they weren't there.

* * *

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid. _What the hell was wrong with her? How pathetic was she, how childish?

She had a boyfriend. A perfectly nice boyfriend. Even if he was getting on her nerves a lot, and a little too overbearing, and a little overly affectionate. And even if he did keep _looking _at her, in a way that made her think he was maybe thinking about sex, when she was no where near ready for that. And even if she had been, she didn't think it would be with Dean. Not really. Not even if she was older, and didn't freak at the idea of someone seeing her naked, and her mother wouldn't kill her for it. She'd always sort of thought, the first time at least, should be with someone she loved. Or could love. Cared for, a lot, at the very least. And...she cared for Dean. But not...

Well, how could she? How could she ever develop strong feelings for him, ever love him, or anyone else, when she was still not over that stupid, childish crush? For God's sake, he looked at her as a kid sister, that stupid, shy eleven year old that turned red and couldn't speak when he was near her. So what if she'd grown up, and stopped being so shy? He'd never think of her in any sort of romantic or sexual way. He'd never be attracted to her. She'd accepted that.

Or, she'd thought she had. She'd certainly tried. But still, when she caught him looking at her, she couldn't help that flare of hope. Maybe he wasn't looking at her as Ron's little sister, but maybe as...

Annoyed, Ginny slammed shut the book she'd been pretending to read, and set it aside. Stupid, she told herself again. He was never going to be interested in her, and just because he was suddenly acting a little different, maybe – or maybe not, it could all be in her head – didn't mean anything.

And, Ginny reminded herself, crossing to the window and staring out at the darkening sky, she had bigger things to worry about. People were dying out there. War was raging. It wasn't a time when schoolgirl crushes mattered at all.

Get over it, she ordered herself. Just forget about Harry, forget about all those little insecurities, and concentrate on what really mattered.


	174. Kiss Goodbye

**Look, it hasn't been as long! Not really sure on the quality of this, but at least it exists.**

**174. Kiss Goodbye**

He'd known he was going to die. He hadn't acknowledged it, hadn't fully accepted what the feeling of dread twisting in his stomach was, hadn't consciously thought, _I am going to die tonight_.

But some part of him knew. Some part of him had known the second she'd stepped into his dream.

He thought of her often. He knew it wasn't healthy, knew that he'd never let her go, never "move on" when he was still obsessing over her. But he didn't care. Didn't want to move on. Move on to what? He held on to every memory of her, every detail, every feeling, and considered those feelings the best part of him.

But he rarely dreamed of her. Hadn't, in truth, dreamed clearly of her for over a decade. He secretly believed that he'd lost all right to dream of her, to see her, when he'd failed to save her life.

But he'd dreamed of her. They'd been in a park, one they'd spent time in as children. Just children, happy – well, she was happy, always, and he was happy when he was with her – innocent and blissfully unaware of what the future held. He'd loved her, even then. Not in the same way as he did now, or the same way he had during his teenage years. But he'd loved her, in a way he'd never been capable of loving anything else.

He wasn't a child now, though, not even in the dream. He was a man, stood in this park, assaulted by memories. Then he heard her laugh, and spun towards the sound.

She'd been a beautiful child. He'd almost forgotten the sweetness of the child, dwelling on the loveliness of the woman. She raced past him, so _small_, her red hair flying behind her, tangling in the breeze. Her laughter rang out, sending an arrow of pain straight to his heart.

"Come on, Sev!" She called brightly, turning back to him. "You'll never catch me! You'll never win me."

How true, Severus thought, even as the image turned, ran, and faded. He'd never managed to catch her...and certainly never won her. He stared, for a long moment, at the spot where she'd faded away.

Then her voice, again, had him turning. Different, he realised, and then caught sight of her. Older, -fifteen, maybe? Her face, her body, had changed, hinting at the woman she would become.

"This isn't you." She said softly, looking into his eyes. "This isn't who you are."

He heard the disappointment in her voice, the fear, much more clearly than he had when he'd first heard her say those words to him. He'd been stupid, then, so convinced he knew what he was doing, knew what he was getting into. And convinced that nothing, no matter what, would ever take his Lily away from him.

"I won't watch you destroy yourself." She told him softly. Then she turned, and walked away.

She faded, and the sky darkened. Somewhere, in the distance, thunder rolled. The air turned cold, and damp.

She didn't speak this time, but instinct had him turning. The sight of her stole his breath.

An adult, now. The age, he thought, taking in every detail of her, she'd been when she'd died.

She walked towards him slowly, gracefully. Every step, every detail, in his eyes, was perfect.

Love for her filled his heart, and made it ache.

She reached him, stood in front of him, and simply looked at him. Or rather, allowed him to look at her.

"Lily..." He spoke, finally, a breathless whisper, and raised his hand to touch her cheek. "Oh, Lily..."

She raised her hand, closed it over his, and smiled, just a little.

He wanted to say so much. To tell her he was sorry, to tell her how much he loved her, to beg her to forgive him. And he simply couldn't find the words.

Slowly, she drew his hand down, away from her face, and held it in hers. Then she leaned forward, and, gently, softly, laid her lips on his.

He closed his eyes, but the touch lasted just the briefest moment...when he opened his eyes, she was gone. And he was home, in his own bed.

He felt the ache in his heart, and the twisting of dread in his stomach. And, torturously, still felt the sensation of her lips on his.

And knew, in some part of him, that this was his last day.


	175. Anonymity

**So, I am trying to update a little more often. Ideas aren't so frequently lately though, so if anyone has any requests, I'll attempt them.**

**175. Anonymity**

He wasn't coping.

He gave a pretty good impression of coping, to the outside world. His family seemed to think he was holding up pretty well. That was deliberate, giving his parents the impression that he didn't need them to hold him up – if they weren't finding him curled up in a corner sobbing and rocking, they were free to concentrate on helping each other through their grief.

So he was careful to lock the door before indulging himself in rocking, sobbing bouts.

His friends, not quite so easily fooled, would ask him frequently how he was doing. So frequently, in fact, that Denis was getting increasingly annoyed with it. How was he doing? His brother was _dead_. How did they think he was doing?

But, apart from a few little outbursts – consisting mostly of screaming at his friends that he was a fucking mess right now, thank you – he would answer their concerned questions with vague replies, ("I'm handling it"; "I just take things day by day"; "I'm doing alright, considering") then change the subject. Often, he'd flip the question around, ask the friend how they were coping, either with the loss of someone they cared for, or, if they'd been lucky and lost no one, simply asking how they were dealing with the trauma.

Though he thought a couple of his friends sort of saw that maybe he wasn't quite handling things like he pretended, they didn't push him.

But he _wasn't_ coping.

It was all there, inside him, the anger and grief and pain – oh, god, the pain, nothing had ever hurt him this much – just there all the time, in his thoughts, his heart, his stomach twisting with it, and he hadn't slept properly in weeks, was only eating when he remembered to force the food down.

He'd lost his brother. He'd lost his brother, his best friend, the person closest to him in the world, the only person to truly understand him. He'd lost a part of himself, and he didn't see how he'd ever be whole again.

And there was no release, no way of getting all the anger and pain and horror out of him. No matter how many tears he cried, his stomach was still tight with grief. No matter how many times he screamed and shouted and broke things, the anger was still there, all but radiating from his body.

_I'm not coping._

He wrote it, carefully, slowly, on the parchment in front of him.

_I'm doing a good job of pretending, but I don't really know how to. I've never lost anyone before, and this was Colin. Not a distant relative I barely knew, not an old family member that I loved but was half waiting to lose, but Colin. He was supposed to always be there, and he's gone._

_How could he leave me? I hate him, I hate him for it, for staying there that night, for fighting when he wasn't supposed to. For dying. He left me, he left me and I hate him._

It was the first time he'd admitted it. For a moment, he stared at the words, horrified, guilty. Then he breathed deeply, rolled up the parchment and sealed it. Then left it on his brother's grave, and walked away.

He was back, a week later. For no other reason that he'd had to get out of the house, and had no where else to go. He didn't like being at the grave particularly, didn't feel any closer to his brother here. In truth, he was slightly disturbed by the idea of Colin laying beneath the soil.

But he sat down on the grass anyway, looking at the headstone. And then he eyes trailed down to the parchment he'd left. For a long moment, he looked at it, then realised what he was seeing. There were words on the outside. His words, on the outside of the scroll. Even though he'd rolled it so the words were on the inside. Curious, confused, he picked it up, and tugged away the seal.

On the inside were words, in a different colour ink, and different handwriting. One he didn't recognise.

For a moment, his gaze tracked to the headstone, then back to the unfamiliar words.

_You don't know me, I don't think_.

He blew out a breath of relief, all his half-formed ghost theories vanishing.

_I hope you don't mind that I read this. The wind blew it towards me as I walked past, and I was curious. _

_I don't know who Colin was to you, but I'm guessing a close friend or family member. It's okay that you hate him. You probably don't think you should, but it's okay, it's okay to be mad at him and hate him. It's normal. You still love him – you wouldn't be so angry otherwise, do you see? It's okay if you're hurt and angry and lost and confused. _

_It will get easier. It will never be alright that he's gone, it won't ever really stop hurting. But it will get easier, you will learn to live with it. I promise._

He read it through three times, these stranger's words. The idea of a complete stranger reading his pain, offering comfort, was strange and yet...

He dug around his pocket, found a scrap of parchment and a quill. And poured his heart out onto the page.

It shouldn't be easier, should it, to talk to this anonymous stranger? To reveal all his pain to them? To say everything that he couldn't say to anyone else.

But he wrote it all – filled both sides of the parchment – then sealed it, left it. No idea if the stranger would even find it, or read it, or reply. But somehow, leaving it there, made him feel just a little lighter.

He made himself wait three days, but when he returned, his parchment was still there, untouched. He was disappointed, but not surprised. It was, however, on his next visit, a few days after, that he saw a fresh letter waited, in place of his own. Eager, he unrolled it, scanned the page, then read it through again, slower. And, dragging out the parchment he'd brought, just in case, scrawled a reply.

He continued like that for weeks, leaving and finding messages every few days. He never left his name, nor did the other person. After a while, they began to talk of other things, beside grief and pain, began to discuss their lives a little more. It felt strange, having this friend that he'd never met, never seen, but the anonymity of it made him feel safe. It was okay to say anything he needed to.

And it helped. Just a little, it helped.

* * *

**And since it is, sometimes, easier to talk to people you don't know, if any one ever needs or wants to talk, I'm willing to listen. Or, read, would be more technical. I'm on msn and facebook, so the offer's there. **


	176. Spiders

**For ****frosty14**** who requested it.**

**Thanks for the reviews guys, you're all awesome and I adore you.**

**And I mean that in the least creepy way possible.**

**Oh yeah, some more of my stories have been translated into Portuguese. Links are on my profile if anyone's interested.**

**176. Spiders**

The scream was loud, high pitched, and full of terror.

It took Ron Weasley less than three seconds to bound up the stairs towards the source of it. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry, and his mind a tangled mess of flashbacks and fears.

He burst into his niece's room, some small, irrational part of him expecting to find a group of Death Eaters gathered around her bed.

That small, irrational part of him felt very stupid when he found the room empty, apart from the small redhead.

"Lily? What's wrong, sweetie?" He stowed his wand in his pocket, feeling a little foolish for reacting so strongly. Old habits die hard, he mused. In the years that had passed since the war ended, he'd long since stopped waking up braced for attack, or scanning his surrounds for danger. But those old instincts were still present.

Lily turned her big blue eyes on him, and then pointed at the wall opposite. Looking over, Ron felt his palms go damp.

It was a different kind of fear, of course. But a fear all the same.

"It's _huge_." Lily whispered.

"It sure is." Ron replied, his voice just a little higher than normal.

The spider was easily the size of Lily's hand, he thought, it's legs stretching out, brown fur covering it. Even as he watched, it started to move, scuttling sideways. With a small sound of distress, Ron stepped backwards.

"Get it." Lily said pleadingly. He tore his eyes away from the beast on the wall to look at his niece; at five, she was tiny, sat wearing pink satin pjs, under a purple duvet, and surrounded by stuffed animals. The picture of innocence, looking at him with those huge eyes full of trust.

She fully expected him to protect her from the monster. Because, thankfully, in her world, adults protected children, looked after them. They didn't hurt, or kill them.

She'd learn, of course, one day, that the world wasn't quite so simple, that there were adults out there that hurt and killed the vulnerable children they were meant to protect. She wouldn't stay trusting and innocent for long; but he wasn't about the be the one to damage that trust.

No, if there was one thing he'd always make sure of, it was that little Lily Potter could always depend on her Uncle Ron.

Even if that meant...

"Oh, wow." He murmured it, then stepped closer to the spider. Drawing his wand out of his pocket, he told himself he was being stupid. He'd fought Death Eaters, for Merlin's sake, stood before Voldemort himself, he'd lived through far worse things than one little spider.

Hell, hadn't he once been carried through a forest by one far, far bigger than this?

Still, it was...it was rather large, by regular, non-magic spider standards. And, it was all furry, and, hell, he was sure it was _looking_ at him.

Swallowing, hard, he stepped closer, then conjured a bubble around the spider.

"Back in a minute." He said to Lily, then, cringing the whole way, he shifted his wand so that the bubble, spider incased, moved away from the wall, and hovered in front of him. Moving as quickly as he dared – not very quickly, because what if he tripped, and fell, and the bubble burst, and the spider ended up on his face? What the hell would he do then? – he walked down the stairs, keeping the bubble aloft in front of him.

The spider crawled around the inside of the bubble, looking for escape, making Ron flinch a little every time it moved. Eventually, he made it into the back garden, and walked up to the fence, sending the bubble over the top. With a flick of his wand, he sent the bubble soaring through the air, and heard it pop as it hit the ground, a fair distance from the house.

Then he turned and rushed back inside.

Lily was stood at her bedroom window, smiling at him. "I saw." She told him, moving back into bed. "You sent it far away."

"Yeah. I didn't hurt it, though." Probably. That horrible thing was most likely indestructible anyway. And he was pretty sure the bubble would've cushioned its impact with the ground before it broke.

Lily shrugged, clearly not caring about the spider's fate now that it was no longer near her. Snuggling down under the covers, she shot him a grin.

"Thank you Uncle Ron." Then, with a mischievous look that reminded him of a much younger Ginny, she whispered, "You're my favourite uncle."

"Oh, really?" He replied, amused.

"Yeah. Don't tell the others, though." She replied, and made him grin. He bent to kiss her forehead, whispered goodnight, and left her to sleep.

For a long while, Lily Potter would tell this story, to general amusement. But, for an even longer time, she would consider it the bravest thing she'd ever seen.


	177. Loneliness

**Mainly, I think, because now I'm all old and stuff I've lost touch with a lot of my old friends. I mean, I still have my closest friends, and there's facebook and everything, but there's a lot of people that aren't in my life any more. And thinking about that, and how I miss how things used to be, and then thinking of how a lot of people seem to make friends over the internet, and I've more kept to myself, kind of lead me to this. It's nothing fantastic, but I'm procrastinating on a two thousand word report.**

**177. Loneliness**

Her first year at Hogwarts was ending.

A part of her was a little sad to be leaving, to be away from the castle over the summer, away from the sheer magic of it all.

And another part of her was immensely disappointed. In the last few days of term, the people around her were exchanging addresses, excitedly promising to visit one another, or to write every week, saying how much they'd miss each other.

And Luna...well, no one had said any of those things to Luna. No one was promising to write to her, or asking if she'd like to visit, or even just to meet up in Diagon Alley in August to pick up school supplies together. No one was wishing her a happy summer, or saying they'd miss her.

No one. Not a single person, after a year.

She didn't want it to matter. She didn't want it to hurt. But she couldn't help it, couldn't quite convince herself that it wasn't important.

Because it _was_.

She'd expected to make friends here. And, not having ever really had any before, she just sort of assumed friendships would happen, automatically. She hadn't known how to approach people and make them like her, hadn't know how to make friends.

During her first few weeks, she watched the people around her converse, form friendships, then circles of friends. The groups changed every so often, with fall outs and new friendships.

And she...well, she was on her own. People had, for the first while, talked to her, tried to get to know her a bit. And then, within a few months, she'd been labelled "Looney Lovegood" and outcasted.

She still wasn't entirely sure what she'd done wrong.

Sitting alone in the common room, Luna watched those around her interact. And felt completely, miserably, alone.

She rode alone on the train. Though everyone else had ran around on the platform, yelling to each other, debating who to sit with, or promising, for some inexplicable reason, to meet up half way through the journey, Luna had looked around, realised no one was even looking at her, much less considering asking her to sit with them, and found herself an empty compartment. One or two people in her year looked in it, smirked when they realised who she was, and left. Right before the train began to move, four fifth years piled into her compartment, without giving her a word or a second glance. She spent the journey looking out of the window, ignoring the conversation happening next to her, feeling more isolated than ever.

When she climbed off of the train at King's Cross, she kept her head down as she retrieved her luggage. Goodbyes were happening around her, ranging from the casual – "see you next year, yeah?" to the more heartfelt – "Write me, okay? And we'll arrange to meet up. Don't miss me too much!" to one sixth year couple that were making out intensely, between dramatic goodbyes and declarations of love.

Luna avoided looking at any of them, and refused to think about the twisted feeling in her stomach. She was in a busy train station, surrounded by more people than she could possibly count. And she felt more alone than she ever had in her life.

"Luna!" At her father's voice, she turned around, her face quickly changing into a smile. Accepting her father's hug, she told herself quickly to forget about it, forget the loneliness and disappointment, and just enjoy the summer.

And knew that, however much she tried to forget it, it would still be there the back of her mind.


	178. Torn

**Hannah Abbott, purely because she was the first name I thought of. Feel free to replace her with the character of your choice.**

**178. Torn**

_We're all just looking for something to take away the pain._

She couldn't _breathe_. She couldn't think, or eat, or sleep, or just stop feeling so fucking miserable for one single minute. She couldn't cope with any of it, couldn't just – just grow up and do what needed to be done. Nothing was right, nothing, her life was a mess, her world was a mess, and there was nothing she could do about it. She felt so, completely alone. And there was no way of handling the fear and the pain, and the loneliness.

Well...

It wasn't really handling it. Not truly. It wasn't solving anything, wasn't, really, making her feel any better. But, a few days ago, in a fit of anger and pain and self hate – she should be stronger, better, more skilled, should be everything that she wasn't – she'd taken her potions knife and dragged it across her forearm. She hadn't, really, felt the bite of the blade, but she'd sat, for a long time, looking at the thin mark it had left, fascinated by the ripped skin and line of blood.

Now, she was into the habit of looking at the mark, just looking at it, this evidence of her pain, this proof that she wasn't coping, that she wasn't okay. "I'm not okay!" That pink mark screamed, every time she looked at it. She couldn't explain, at all, why it made her feel better, just to see it – seeing the mark brought her more comfort than the actual act of self harm had. Inexplicable, but at this point, Hannah was ready to latch onto anything that made her feel the slightest bit better.

She stared at that mark some more, then turned her attention out to the window, looking out at the darkening sky. She wouldn't do it again, she told herself. It was a pointless cycle that she wouldn't let herself fall into.

Even if that torn skin made her feel better. It wasn't right, it wasn't...

She was sobbing. She'd tried to stop crying so much, telling herself it changed nothing, and didn't even make her feel better, and she was sick of crying daily.

But here she was again, sat on the edge of her bed, knees up to her chest, rocking and sobbing. Breaking.

And there it all was, in her stomach, her chest, that tightness, that pressure, the misery, and god, she was so sick of feeling like this, so sick of feeling lost and hurt and helpless, so sick of hating herself, hating everything about herself.

A sob caught in her throat, painfully, and, without thinking, without deciding to, she sprang from the bed, wrenching the drawer in her bedside table open, so hard it flew all the way out, falling to the floor loudly. Angrily, she dropped to her knees and began pushing through things, desperately searching. She'd stowed the knife in here, last time, the tip still stained with her blood. It was in here somewhere, mixed in with the rest of the junk. Her stupid habit, Hannah thought bitterly, of throwing anything in here, too lazy to find a proper place for it, too lazy to ever organise any thing. Lazy, and stupid and –

Grabbing at a flash of silver, she found, not the knife, but a pair of nail scissors.

They'd do.

Opening the scissors, she dug one sharp point into her flesh, a few inches above the other mark. And then, pressing, she dragged it down. Then again, over the same faint pink mark, and again and again and again, tearing the skin, ripping it, over and over, feeling the sting of it, watching the mark get clearer. Finally stopping, her breath coming in short, laboured pants, she lifted her arm close to her face. She could see the jagged edges of the rip, the shiny line. Not blood, it hadn't bled at all, but the skin was torn, damaged.

She was damaged, after all, why shouldn't her skin be the same?

She replaced the drawer, carefully, throwing the scissors back inside.

She wouldn't do it again, she told herself, even as she traced a fingertip over the raised mark. Of course not.


	179. Sleeves

**More of a continuation from the last one than anything else. Sorry if the subject of self-harm bothers anyone. And sorry the chapters aren't so happy lately. My mood's low at the minute, so you're not likely to get anything happy.**

**Thanks for the reviews. You guys are amazing.**

**The song lyrics at the beginning are from "The World Will Turn Your Way" by Tyler Hilton.**

**179. Sleeves**

_"Drop your baggage on my front door__  
You don't have to carry it alone anymore  
'Cause tonight ain't the end of the story  
Just keep turning the page  
Don't give into the heartache  
Don't give into the pain"_

"You always wear long sleeves." Neville said suddenly. He and Hannah were cuddled up on the sofa in his flat, had been contently silent, until his thumb had brushed against the sleeve at her wrist.

"I do?"

"Yeah. Always. Don't you like shorter sleeves?"

She started to shrug it off, make excuses, then bit her lip. After a quick internal struggle, she sat up.

"I like short sleeves. I just can't wear them."

"How come?" Genuinely confused, he shifted into a sitting position. "Is this one of those weird girl things I won't understand?"

She smiled a little, and shook her head. "How long have we been seeing each other now, Neville? About two months?"

"Yeah." And it was still strange to think that, throughout school, he'd never really paid her much attention, never imagined the one day, she'd be his girlfriend, and make him feel...well, he hadn't quite worked out how exactly he was feeling. But good. It was good.

She nodded. "I need to tell you something. I...Don't think less of me for it, Neville, please."

"Hey, come on. There's nothing that could make me think less of you."

She didn't believe him, not for a second. But she pushed back her left sleeve. For a moment, he looked at her blankly, then looked properly at her arm. "Oh."

It was a mess. Thin pink lines ran horizontally across the top two inches of her wrist, almost neatly. The rest of her forearm hand lines of different lengths, running at different angles, different directions, some fainter than others.

"I...What...?"

"I did it. I started...during the last year of the war, I started doing it. Knife..." She ran her fingertip over the lines at the top two inches. "When I needed to see blood, I used the knife." She trailed her finger down, ran it over some of the other marks. "When I just needed the pain, when I was angry, or I just wanted...I just wanted to see the skin break, I'd use whatever I had handy. Nail scissors, pins, sewing needles. Anything sharp, anything that would rip the skin. I needed to leave a mark. I needed, I don't know. I still don't really understand it. I needed to have the mark there, to be able to see it, and know..."

"And know you'd hurt yourself?" He was careful to keep his tone free of judgement.

"I don't know. To have the proof that I wasn't okay, that I wasn't coping."

"Did you want someone to see, to help you?"

"No. Not at all. I was hurting, Neville, so much, on the inside. I wanted some kind of mark from that. It...it calmed me to see them."

"Do you still do it?"

She hesitated, unable to read his voice, his expression. "I haven't, for maybe three, four months. But I...Sometimes I still want to. I probably will do it again. And I think, if I didn't have these marks already, didn't have the scars to look at, then I'd probably do it more often. It helps me, Neville." Her voice was just a little louder on that last statement, a little angry, because she was sure he was judging her, and he _shouldn't_.

"Okay."

"You don't understand. You can't. I know, it's...it's weak, okay, I know how messed up it is, but it helps me, it helps, and why should I be ashamed of it? _Everyone_ is looking for something, right, to make them feel better, to stop them from hurting. I found mine."

"Hannah. You're right, I don't understand. But I don't think you're weak. I think you're entitled to feel however you feel, and to deal with that however you can."

"I'm a mess, Neville." She said it quietly, looking down at her arm. "I'm still a mess. But if you'd known how bad I was back then, how hurt I felt, all the time, how lost and alone...I still feel like that sometimes, but I'm a lot better than I was."

"You're not alone." He said, not knowing how else to respond. "Hannah, you're not alone. You have me."

And it was far too early in the relationship, she thought, to lean on him too heavily, to expect him to deal with her emotions. But she nodded anyway.

"Promise me, if you feel like doing this again, you'll come to me. I'd rather you talk to me, or – or cry over me, or whatever, than hurt yourself."

"I can't promise that." She replied.

"Hannah -"

"No, Neville. If I'm at the point where I want to hurt myself, I'm not thinking. I'm not rational or logical. I'm not...I'm crazy, in that moment, so I can't promise anything. I'll try. I'm trying to not do it anymore. I haven't done it regularly in almost a year now, it's an occasional thing. But I can't promise anything, and it's not fair for you to ask me to."

"I want to help you."

"I didn't tell you so you'd help me. I told you because...it just feels like something you should know. You should know who you're really with. I'll understand if you...if you decide not to be with me anymore."

"Hey." He tilted her face up so she'd look at him. "This doesn't change anything. Okay? I'm glad you told me."

"Don't feel like you have to stay with me because I'm weak and fragile -"

"You're one of the strongest people I know. I don't think less of you for this, Hannah. I just want you to know, you don't have to deal with any of this alone anymore."

"Okay."

"How do you...How did you go from doing it regularly, to doing it occasionally?" He asked suddenly. "I mean, it must take a lot to stop, if it really does help..."

She shrugged. "More better days. More days where I didn't feel bad enough to do it. And...sometimes, you just...you just don't give into the pain."

He leaned forward, kissed her gently. And, after a long silence, he tugged her back down to lay cuddled with him.

_(Because no one wants to be alone.)_


	180. Dissatisfaction

**So. On Wednesday, I managed, somehow, to fall over and dislocate my kneecap, fracturing it in the process. I'm therefore currently on crutches and pretty much spending most of my time sat with my laptop. Which means, especially since I'm done with Uni for the summer (which is a good thing, considering my current difficulty getting around), I'm going to probably spend a lot of time writing. So if anyone has any requests, let me know. Seriously, any little thing at all, give me something to do to distract myself from the discomfort, frustration and annoyance of it all. Otherwise I'll end up spending hours playing games on facebook, and being bored stupid.**

**Thanks for the reviews. You guys are amazing.**

**180. Dissatisfaction**

Her name was Dora Lupin. She was fifteen years old, an inch or so under average height for her age, light and slim. Sometimes, she wished she was a little more curvy, but told herself that she wasn't girly or vain enough to obsess about things like that. She tended to dress, when not in robes, in jeans and vest tops or t-shirts. Sometimes, she sort of wanted to dress a little more girly, to wear skirts, maybe even dresses, but she was just a little insecure and tended to think that, after so many years of not wearing such things, she'd just look and feel silly.

Besides, she didn't want to draw attention to herself. Not anymore than she already got. She was a Lupin, and a Weasley, she was Harry Potter's goddaughter. She got more than enough attention as it was. Which of course, meant that if she ever got up the guts to wear a skirt around Hogwarts at the weekend, someone would notice, and someone was bound to have a bitchy comment.

She would have liked to have the confidence not to care, but, though she told herself that no one else's opinion mattered, she couldn't quite overcome the self consciousness. So she was one of the few girls in her year that didn't wear make-up. She ignored the occasional urge to dress more feminine (it didn't matter, she told herself, she wasn't a girly-girl anyway). And she spent her time with the two close friends she'd made at the age of eleven. Though she sometimes wished she had a larger circle of friends, wished she could sit and casually talk to anyone without feeling nervous, she loved and trusted those two friends, and, really, she didn't need _more_, did she? Yes, she sometimes felt a little bit isolated, but it didn't matter. She was a good girl, staying out of trouble, doing her homework on time, getting good grades. And if, sometimes, she got the urge to do something stupid and reckless, to just _not care_ about getting into trouble, or what people would say or think, to do something bad but interesting, well, that was just silly, wasn't it? She wasn't a trouble-maker, she wasn't a "bad girl". She wasn't the type to smoke in the bathroom and drink in the dorms and fight and steal and sneak about with boys and have sex (she was curious about sex, but found herself looking down on the kids in her year who were doing it, and thought that she'd rather be a virgin than a slut).

Though it might be nice if some boy wanted her. There were a few who'd shown interest over the past couple of years, but she was too shy and uncertain to do anything about it. Besides, none of them had clearly _said _they were interested, she'd just gotten the impression, or her friends had. No one had actually asked her out, or made a move. She'd had one kiss, at the age of twelve, but no relationships.

But hey, she was too young for love, right, and she wasn't ready for sex, so what would be the point in a boyfriend? Yes, it might be nice to have someone to kiss and cuddle and hold hands with, to feel like you were attractive enough for someone to fancy you, but she'd managed this long without it. And it wasn't like she was particularly interested in any of the boys in her year. So while she might have (would have) like a boyfriend, it wasn't important.

(So she told herself. Even when she felt so lonely and unwanted and wondered what it was that was so wrong with her, that no one wanted her. Even when she thought that one day, she'd regret the way she'd lived, all shy and guarded, with no relationship or life experience.)

On the twenty fourth of December, she stood in the bathroom at home, hearing distant sounds of her family from downstairs, staring at her own reflection. She could, she thought, change everything about that face, make it look however she wanted.

But, it wouldn't be hers then, would it? She'd have a stranger looking at her in the mirror. That was why she rarely changed her appearance, despite having the ability to do so at will. Because, however uncomfortable she felt in her own skin, she felt far too strange when she changed it.

With a sigh, she turned away from the mirror and wondered out of the bathroom, started downstairs. Halfway down, she stopped, looking at the picture on the wall.

Her grandmother, her dad's mother, the woman she was named for. The picture had been taken not long before she died, and the young woman, with bright pink hair and a face lit with laughter, looked nothing like a grandmother. She'd never got the chance to become one. Barely had the chance to be a mother.

Studying that face, Dora shifted her mind through every story she'd heard about the woman. She'd hated her name, and made people call her by her surname. She'd fallen in love with a werewolf, and married him, bore his son, knowing that society would disapprove. She'd been in endless trouble at school, been confident and reckless. She'd been fun, always laughing and joking, entertaining everyone. She'd been liked, and loved.

Dora sighed, just a little, and tried to suppress the envy. The woman in the picture looked completely comfortable in her own skin. The woman in that picture had possessed the courage to do whatever she wanted to, without worrying what anyone thought about her. The woman in that picture had been everything her granddaughter wasn't, and secretly wanted to be.

The woman in that picture had lived a short life, but she'd _lived_ it. Dora...Dora was simply surviving, one day to the next, breathing and eating and sleeping, but not really _living_. Sure, she had fun sometimes, she laughed, and she could probably come up with countless "good" days, countless happy memories. But...

Only fifteen, she told herself, and deliberately turned away from the picture. She was only fifteen, she had her whole life out in front of her. Why worry because she hadn't done _anything_ at fifteen? Stupid to worry about it now. She had her whole life to do everything she wanted to do, to become everything she wanted to be.

She continued down the stairs, and put a smile on her face before she walked into the living room. Don't worry about it, she ordered herself. Just don't.

(And still, there it was, deep down, the regret that she hadn't experienced anything, the idea that her life was empty, and the fear that in another fifteen years, she'd feel exactly the same way.)


	181. Change

**Okay, so I do have story for Mitch. And for Albus, actually. I've had it for about a year now, and every attempt to get it from vague plot to actual fic has come out horribly. So I've pretty much given up on it. It might, however, end up eventually being scattered through Jigsaw Pieces.**

**Thanks for the reviews. And well wishes. And requests.**

**181. Change**

His life was over.

Mitch Longbottom lowered his head to the kitchen table, and banged it, hard, against the wood. And again. And again.

"You want to stop doing that, Mitch. You can't spare the brain cells." The sarcastic voice had Mitch pausing, his forehead an inch above the table. Slowly, he raised his head, and glared at his life-long best friend. James Potter had been his brother in law for a year now, but they'd considered each other family for a long time before that.

"Are you here to get drunk with me?" Mitch asked flatly. James flashed a grin, then dropped into the seat opposite him.

"Drinking's not going to fix this one, mate." He had a half smile on his face, but Mitch knew James' face as well as he knew his own, and could see the worry and fury in his friend's eyes. Worry and fury for him. "She'll be back. Sooner or later. Not for the kid."

"For money." Mitch finished, nodding. "She'll come back when she's broke and beg for money. But she doesn't care about the – the baby." He swallowed, hard. He'd only had two weeks to get used to being a father. Now he had to be a single father?

"He's definitely yours?" James asked carefully. "I mean, based on her track record...that's the first thing you need to check."

"I already did." Mitch sighed. "Right after he was born. He looks like me, but I still had to check. He's mine. She was telling the truth on that one, at least. You know what she said, right before she walked out the door? Remember, when I ended it, and she begged me to take her back because she was pregnant? She said she wasn't, then, but she knew it'd make me give her another chance. Said I was too "decent" to turn my back on her if I thought she was pregnant. So she faked it, and made sure she got pregnant for real."

"You thought that." James pointed out. "The dates didn't add up."

"I know. But hearing her say it...What am I going to do, James? She's left me with a baby."

He felt like he was drowning. Was it really only a year ago that he'd met Nicole? Fun and unpredictable, sexy and interesting. For about a month, he'd been enthralled, all but addicted to her, and then she'd changed, become jealous and angry, screaming and throwing things at him one second, breaking down in tears the next. He'd tried to end it; she'd claimed she was pregnant, and convinced him that they could make it work.

Not that they had. They'd spent the next nine months alternating between getting along, and having blazing rows over nothing. She developed a habit of disappearing for a few days, then turning up as if she'd never left, driving him crazy. By the time their son was born, he'd been exhausted, emotionally drained, and had the spent the last couple of weeks struggling with guilt. Because he wanted the best for his son, wanted to give him a solid family. And knew that there was on possible way he could stay with Nicole.

"I was working out how to leave her." Mitch said quietly. "Trying to figure out how to work it so that she'd still let me have access to Seth. I thought she'd take him away from me. I'd rather she had."

"Hey." James' voice was sharp. "Don't. She's a psychopath. You really want your son alone with her? Goddamn it Mitch, I wouldn't trust her with a pet rat. It's not going to be easy, I'll give you that, but Seth's far better off with us than with that crazy bitch."

Mitch smiled wryly. "You never liked her."

"Yeah, well now you know to trust my opinions. You knew what she was. You just didn't care."

The tone prickled, and Mitch felt his temper spike. And, reluctantly, bit back the anger. Only James could tell you how stupid and wrong you were, while being completely and totally on your side.

"I didn't know about the drugs." Mitch said. "Not until she was already pregnant. For real pregnant, I mean."

"You knew she liked to steal. You knew she quit Hogwarts at sixteen. Your dad remembered her, remembered how much trouble she caused."

"We caused trouble at school, too."

"_We_ never attacked students and teachers. We didn't have a habit of breaking out and disappearing for a week or two. We never stole things from people or vandalised. You knew there was something off about her. You just didn't bother to figure out what, because you were thinking with your dick."

Mitch laughed humourlessly. "We've all been there."

"I know you don't want to hear it, Mitch, but you and Seth, you're better off without her. She never loved you. Or him."

"I never loved her. I never wanted her to love me. But Seth, he's hers. How could she walk away from him like that?"

"You just said you'd rather she'd taken him. Would you have let her walk away with him?"

"No." He sighed it. "No. I'd've fought her to get him back. He's mine. But God James, what do I do? He's two weeks old. I don't know how to take care of a baby. I can't do this on my own."

"You're not on your own. You know that. Come on. Pack up some things. You'll come stay with and Ally for a while. We'll help out with Seth until you can handle it."

"I can't just move in -"

"Of course you can. And if I go back home without you, Ally's going to come drag you out of here. You stay with us, just for a few weeks. We'll help you through this Mitch. You know that."

"I know." He pushed a hand through his hair. "James, what am I going to tell him? When he's older, and he asked why he doesn't have a mother, what the hell do I tell him?"

"You tell him that his father was stupid enough to get involved with a psycho junkie who was incapable of caring about anyone but herself, and that walking away was the best thing she ever did for him."

"James."

"I don't know, Mitch. Don't worry about it now." Together, they walked into the living room, looked down at the sleeping infant. He was innocent, completely unaware.

"What if I screw it up? This parenting stuff. What if I mess up?"

"You just do the best you can. You love him, don't you?"

"Well, yeah. Of course."

"So you go from there. You'll be fine, Mitch, both of you."

He nodded, but he wasn't so sure. His kid had a mother who was an occasional drug user, crazy and violent, and who'd walked away from him without a backward glance. Now he was stuck with a single dad who had no idea what he was doing.

Turning away from his son, Mitch began to pack his things up, sickeningly aware that life as he'd known it was over. Everything was going to change.


	182. Lonely

**Look. Another update. Because boredom and depression lead me to writing, apparently. **

**It's very short, but it's mostly just rambling. Still, a subject I can relate to.**

**182. Lonely**

She felt alone.

She had tons of homework to do – and just looking at the books piled up beside her bed made her stomach twist, knowing she was in for another sleepless night as she tried to finish it all. Her choice, she reminded herself, her decision. She'd chosen to take so many classes, to apply for a time turner, and she'd been convinced that she could handle it.

But she wasn't handling it, not really. There was so much work, and she was so tired all the time, and now...now she was alone.

Ron and Harry were her only friends. Had been, her only friends, that is. And she hated herself for that, for not making more friends, for not making an effort to get on with the girls in her year, for not having anyone to turn to now that the boys had deserted her. She should have more friends, shouldn't she? People to talk to, people to spend time with.

She was struggling. No, she was drowning. And she had no one to turn to, and it was her own stupid fault.

She'd do it differently, if she could start again. Oh, she'd still have become friends with Harry and Ron. Definitely. Though she was impossibly hurt by how things had gone this year, she would still have had them as friends the past two years. But she would have made an effort, right from the beginning, to make other friends, to talk to everyone, to have fun – to _be_ fun.

She wouldn't have isolated herself.

She wouldn't be alone now.

Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe she could still try to talk to the girls in her year, to make friends with them. But...wouldn't they find it weird, now that they were in third year? For her to suddenly start trying to form friendships? And wouldn't everyone, knowing that Ron wasn't speaking to her and that Harry was mostly on Ron's side, think that she was simply using them now that she was alone? And, wasn't she, really, just looking for people to talk to, for people to save her from feeling lonely? Was that fair?

But oh, she was so alone. So sick of having no one to talk to, so sick of struggling, drowning, all _alone_.

She just wanted some more people in her life. Some human interaction.

And...she wanted Ron and Harry back. She wanted to be friends with them again. She wanted to be back in their group, to have them annoying her and making her laugh and stopping her from being too serious and counting on her to help them.

But she was alone. All alone.

And right now, there didn't seem to be a single thing she could do about it.


	183. Family III

**Just a little continuation. Went back to Mitch story, because otherwise, I'd just have written something ridiculously depressing.**

**Thank you for the reviews, of course.**

**183. Family**

"Seth! Get back here!" Mitch Longbottom reached a snatching hand out for his four year old son; the small boy skipped agilely out of reach. "_Seth_!"

"Don't wanna." The tone was designed to drive him crazy, and Mitch knew it. Unfortunatly, recognising that didn't make the tone any less infuriating.

"Seth, if you don't go brush your teeth –"

"Don't wanna." Seth interjected.

"Yeah, I heard the first time." Mitch muttered through gritted teeth. "But if you don't, then we're not going to the Burrow, okay? We'll stay here. Inside. All day."

Seth paused, obviously torn between his loathing of toothpaste, and his desire to go to the Burrow. Eventually, he evidently decided that the prospect of remaining home all day with his clearly irritated father was the greater of two evils.

With a sulky look, he ran for the stairs.

Mitch waited a beat, then followed. His son brushed his teeth in record time, then turned round to bare them.

"Sparkling." Mitch replied dryly. Seth flashed a smile, and despite his best efforts to look stern, Mitch found himself grinning back.

They arrived at the Burrow later than intended, but no one batted an eyelid. Though he tried his best to be organised, Mitch had long ago realised that life with Seth was chaotic, and there was little he could do to combat that. In truth, he sometimes enjoyed the unpredictability of it.

The Burrow was crowded with people, scattered throughout the rooms and spilling into the back garden. They sat or stood, talking to one another or yelling across the room. There was bickering and banter, serious conversations and light gossip. Children of various ages ran around, arguing and laughing.

The Burrow had, for as long as Mitch could remember, been like another home to him. Molly and Arthur Weasley had stepped into the role of grandparents, and given him love, support, and a giant family. Over the last four years, they'd given his son the exact same thing, and he would be eternally grateful for it.

The second they stepped through the front door, Seth was off, tearing through the crowd. He almost knocked over Adelaide Lupin, who steadied herself, laughed, then waved a Mitch in greeting.

Mitch didn't bother to call him back, instead making his way over to where James and Albus stood. He registered the fact that a vaguely familiar looking woman was stood with Albus, a female toddler balanced on her hip.

James and Al greeted him as he reached them, then Albus, slipped his arm around the woman's waist. "Have you met Lizzie, Mitch?"

"I think so. I can't quite place your face." Mitch told her, apologetically.

"Phoenix House." She supplied with a smile. "I work there. You've been by a few times."

"Oh, yeah. I remember now. You'll be the same Lizzie Al's been talking about non-stop for the past while, then?"

"Mitch thinks he's embarrassing me." Albus told her easily. "But I learned at a young age to ignore everything he said."

"He's lying. He hangs on my every word. The boy's devoted to me."

"It's true." James agreed. "It's sickening."

"The tag-team teasing was horrible when I was a kid." Al added. "But, unlike these two, I've grown up a bit."

"Or so he would have you believe." James grinned at Lizzie. "You'll get used to us. We're not as awful as Al likes to tell people."

"That's debatable."

"Oi, big brother." The voice came along with a sharp jab to his ribs. Turning, Mitch looked down at his younger sister, and frowned.

"You need to stop with the jabbing, Lydie. You leave bruises."

"You're such a tough guy." She grinned. "Where's Seth?"

"Around. Somewhere."

"Nice parenting." She replied, and stuck her tongue out at him. "I've got him a present."

"Why?"

"'Cause I love him."

"You never buy me any presents."

"That should tell you something then, shouldn't it?"

Lizzie watched the exchange with interest. The casual banter was all around her, with so much affection along with it that she was a little jealous. It must, she thought, be fabulous to grow up with the much love and acceptance all around you.

"If you're looking for Seth, he just went upstairs." Lily Potter appeared out of nowhere, and bent her arm to lean her elbow on James' shoulder.

"Did he have that look on his face?" Mitch asked her. "You know, that 'I'm going to go find some trouble to cause' look?"

"Mitch, he _always_ has that look. He gets it from you."

"True story. I guess I better go find him."

Seth was a good kid, Mitch thought as he crossed the room. Better behaved, in fact, than Mitch had ever been. But he was, undeniably, his father's son. And so he stepped into the hallway apprehensively, expecting some kind of trouble, with his boy at the center.

What he did not expect was to find Seth stood halfway up the staircase, looking up at a young woman. Mitch didn't recognise her, but realised after a moment that she resembled Albus's girlfriend.

"Who're you?" Mitch heard Seth ask.

"I'm Brie." She told him, then sat down on the step so she was eye-level with him, pushing her long, dark brown hair over her shoulder. "Who're you?"

"I'm Seth." He said brightly, and tilted his head. After a moment, Brie evidently realised he was trying to place her, and offered explanation.

"I'm Lizzie's sister." She told him. "I came here with her. Do you know Lizzie?"

"Yeah. She works with Grandma and Uncle Albus, and Uncle Teddy. She's nice."

"Yeah. She is. Who do you belong to, then?" She asked him, smiling. Seth was grinning at her, and she was clearly thoroughly charmed. The boy had that effect on people, Mitch mused, with some pride.

"Mitch." Seth replied. Brie nodded, clearly having no idea who he was. After a brief hesitation, Mitch cleared his throat.

"Seth, what're you doing?"

The woman jumped, looked over at him, and stiffened visibly. Curiously, Mitch watched her take a slow, deliberate breath, and force herself to relax.

"Talking." Seth replied easily, turning to face his father. Then, to Brie's shock, he would one skinny arm around her neck. "She's nice, Daddy."

Mitch's smile flashed, and Brie noticed the striking resemblance between father and son.

"Lizzie's sister, right?" He asked, and Brie nodded. She looked wary; since he didn't think they'd ever met, and therefore she had no reason to be nervous around him, he assumed she didn't deal well with strangers. "I'm Mitch. Sort of Al's cousin. In an honorary way. His brother James is actually married to my sister."

"Allison." She said after a moment. "I met her once."

"Yeah." Her eyes flickered to the door behind him. Sensing she was uncomfortable, he shifted his gaze to his boy. "C'mon, Seth, Lydia wants you."

"How come?"

"She's got you a present, so go get before she gives it to some better looking kid."

Seth giggled, then and jumped down a step, barely releasing Brie's neck in time. "See you, Brie." He called over his shoulder, and then ran flat out for the kitchen.

"See you, Brie." Mitch said lightly. She didn't smile, or speak, just watched him leave.

"What's up with Lizzie's sister, then?" Mitch asked. He was stood with Albus and James in the kitchen, watching Lydia fuss over Seth and his new toy.

"What d'you mean?" Albus asked, looking up. He'd been watching his daughter, Claudia, trying to climb onto a chair, carefully supervised by Lily.

"She was talking to Seth in the hallway, all nice and smiley. Then saw me, and went all...weird. What's the story?"

"Ah." Albus glanced across the room to where Lizzie was sat at the table with her daughter, sister, Ally and Rose. "I get the impression she's a little...wary, around men. Their father used to knock them around pretty regularly." Lizzie had already told him it was no secret, and if he wanted to share it with his family, then that was fine. He still felt a little prick of guilt, though, as if he was betraying her.

"You're kidding." James replied. Mitch said nothing.

"Started with the mother, and then after she died he moved onto the kids. Lizzie was nine, so Brie would've been around ten."

"God." Mitch muttered.

"Yeah. Lizzie was telling me how Brie used to shield her as much as possible, so I'm guess she got battered quite a bit. Um, after they went to Hogwarts, they'd only go home for the summer, naturally. They left though, when Lizzie was sixteen. After he broke her arm."

"What?" James and Mitch asked together.

"Yeah." Albus sighed it. The guilt had faded, replaced by relief. In the two weeks since Lizzie had told him, he'd wanted to share the story with someone, instead of keeping it inside him. He wanted, inexplicably, to protect Lizzie, and the child she'd been, and the fact that he couldn't left him feeling helpless. "They'd been saving money for years, nicking what they could from him, so that they could get out once Lizzie was seventeen. He caught her stealing some cash from him, and snapped her arm. Brie took her, and left."

"She'd've been seventeen." Mitch murmured.

"Brave, brave girl." James added quietly.

"Yeah. Lizzie was telling me that they didn't have much money, and finding a place to stay for the rest of that summer took most of their cash up. As soon as she finished school, Brie started working two jobs to make sure Lizzie had a place to come home to. But, anyway, Brie – understandably – doesn't trust men too much. So, don't take it personally, Mitch."

"No problem." Mitch said. Looking over at the table, he watched Brie with some curiosity. And admiration.


	184. Cliche

**Thank you, of course, for reviews. You're fabulous people.**

**184. Cliché**

Dominique was the middle child. She hated to slip into that stereotypical, overlooked middle child mentality, but sometimes, it was difficult not to.

Here they were again. Holidaying in France. And though she loved visiting her French family, and loved, to some extent, the country itself (though she couldn't claim any kind of strong, in the blood bond for the country that had birthed her mother) she was sick of the sun, and the way it burned her delicate skin until she was sore and red and peeling, and she sick of the way her grandparents insisted she speak French to them, delighted by how well she managed it (yes, she spoke it well, but it still took concentration to do so for long periods of time) and sick, absolutely completely sick of the way boys fawned over Victoire, barely giving her glancing at her.

Why wouldn't they? Victoire had breasts and hips and long, shiny hair and a beautiful face and confidence, so much confidence that she could talk to anyone, with a smile, make them like her, make them remember her. Dominique, though she supposed she was fairly pretty, thanks to her mother's genes, didn't have the figure, or the long shiny hair – it would grown to a few inches below her shoulders, then become a straggly, unmanageable mess – and she struggled to make eye contact when talking to strangers, never mind smile. Add in the burnt, peeling skin, and she could understand why the boys flocked to Victoire instead of her.

But it wasn't _fair_. Victoire had Teddy, waiting at home and clearly in love with her. And though she would talk to the boys, accept their attention, she would make it clear that she was unavailable and uninterested...and still, there they were. So Victoire would enjoy the attention, maybe even harmless flirtation, then go home to the boyfriend who loved her.

Dominique would give anything to have someone love her like that, but...well, she didn't seem to have it in her to make someone feel that way. She wasn't loveable. Or even likeable. And though everyone kept telling her she was young, just seventeen and with her whole life ahead of her, she wanted someone to love her. Just for her. Not for the Veela genes, or for the famous family, but just for her.

But that, she told herself bitterly, was not going to happen if she couldn't get up the nerve to talk to anyone.

With a sigh, she stood up, leaving her sister to wonder back to the house. Victoire called after her; Dominique lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but kept walking. It wasn't fair to resent Victoire for getting attention, or for having the ideal relationship, or for being so damn perfect in every possible way, but she couldn't help herself. Not when she was so awkward and shy and wrong.

And there, she noted with a sigh as she neared her grandparents' house, was Louis, skateboarding with a couple of boys who lived nearby. He had that same confidence, the same likeability that Victoire had. And, Dominique noticed with some annoyance, a couple of girls were standing around, watching him and his friends with clear female interest. Her little brother could get attention form the opposite sex, but she couldn't? Where was the justice in that?

Why was it so _hard_ for her? To make friends, to get boyfriends. Even stupid little things, like picking out clothes – Victoire always knew what suited her, what went together well, how to accessorise perfectly. Dominique had no idea. She chose clothes she liked and paired them together without thought. And then she'd look at her sister's flawless, interesting outfits and feel boring. She couldn't put on eyeliner. Girls at school were experimenting with make-up – a lot of them, admittedly, wearing far too much of it – but they all managed it. Dominique couldn't ever get it to look right, even with magic. Weren't girls supposed to automatically know how to do stuff like that?

She even, she thought, as she let herself into the house and slipped upstairs to her room, was boring in terms of school. Victoire got excellent grades, and was Head Girl. Louis, while managing decent grades while it counted, neglected his homework and was frequently receiving detentions. Dominique, however, got decent grades, but never enough to draw particular attention, and stayed out of trouble, but hadn't been made prefect. She wasn't particularly interesting either way; just unnoticeable, in the middle.

She was, she told herself, staring at her own face in the mirror, completely average, in every possible way. This, she could admit, wouldn't be so much of a problem, if she hadn't been in a decidedly not average family.

The middle child, not quite comfortable in her own skin, not quite as sparkling as her siblings – or cousins, for that matter – not quite sure of her place in the world.

She was, Dominique thought miserably, a perfect cliché.


	185. Fight

**The lyric at the beginning is from the YouMeAtSix song, _Underdog_. This takes place during the final battle at Hogwarts in _Deathly Hallows. _**

**Thanks you for reviewing.**

**185. Fight**

_And I'm down, down, but definitely not out._

He almost screamed, but the sound caught in his throat. Instead, a strangled, choking noise escaped him, as he fell backwards through the air, his stomach jerking from the shock. Throwing himself backwards to avoid a killing curse had been instinctive, and it had saved his life.

It had also sent him flying down what was left of a staircase.

Dean hit several steps on the way down, his back slamming into each one and causing pain to ripple through him. He landed heavily at the bottom, and heard a loud crack.

For a moment, he was sure he'd broken a bone, and tried to locate which one by assessing his pain. Everywhere hurt, though, every single inch of his body seem to ache or burn or sting. He sat up, slowly, his body protesting at the movement. He stood, staggering to the side as his head spun. Pressing a hand to his temple, he groaned and tried to think straight, to understand what he needed to do. His hand came away slick with blood.

_Hide_. He thought, closing his eyes in an attempt to combat the dizziness. He needed to hide, to find somewhere safe, just for a few seconds until his head stopped spinning and he could figure out what he'd broken.

He forced his eyes to open, looked desperately around, then stumbled around the side of the staircase. The gap underneath the stairs wasn't the best place to hide – he had a feeling he wasn't really hidden at all – but it was all he could think of. He squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head to try to clear it; instead, pain rippled through him and the dizziness increased. He braced one hand against the wall, and raised the other so he could defend himself if necessary.

And then he realised what the crack had been, realised what he'd broken. His wand had snapped almost completely in half, the pieces held together by just a thin, outside layer of wood, so that it formed a right angle. He stared at it in horror, and knew all hope was lost.

He had no wand. He had no wand, and the castle was crawling with Death Eaters and falling down around them. He could barely stand and his body seemed to be seconds away from giving up completely.

He was done, Dean thought, bile rising in his throat. Without a wand, he could do nothing other than wait here to be discovered and slaughtered. If he was lucky, he might just pass out, and escape any pain.

He was dead. Dead man walking. He would never go home. Never see his mother again. Never hear his siblings' laughter. He would never get older and fall in love and marry. He would never have children.

He lowered himself, slowly and painfully, into a sitting position, pressing his back against the wall in order to hide himself better. He felt like a coward; hiding away, like a scared little boy, while others fought. But what else could he do? He had no weapon or defence. And he _hurt_. Everywhere, so much so that tears were gathering in his eyes, and Dean had long since given up crying. But why not? Why not sit here and cry, just sob, until he died? What else was there? It was over, it was all over, and a part of him was glad. He was so tired of fighting, so tired of forcing himself through one day to the next, so tired of struggling. What was the point?

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back on the wall, and waited for death. It would be a relief. To die, to escape the pain, to just float away. None of this would matter then. He had felt, for the last year, like hell, struggling and drowning, full of pain and fear and anger. To escape all of that would be...it would be perfect.

He was tired. Maybe he would just go to sleep. Go to sleep, and then slip into death. He wouldn't even feel it. Would he know it had happened?

Dean let his body relax, eyes still closed, and waited for death.

"Dean?" The voice was strained and scared. Dean opened his eyes slowly, had to blink twice before he could focus on Seamus' panicked face. "Dean. I thought you were...What are you doing?"

Seamus' face was streaked with grime and blood. His left sleeve was torn. His wand was clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white.

"Dean? What are you doing?" Seamus repeated, shooting one nervous look behind them. Dean didn't speak, but lifted his hand to show the broken wand.

"Oh. Oh, man. That's not good. Okay. We need to get you another one. We'll get you a wand, and -"

"It's over." Dean croaked. "It's all over, Seamus. I'm done."

"Dean, come on, don't be stupid. We'll get you a wand, it'll be fine." Seamus' voice was fast and panicked.

Dean shook his head. "I can't fight anymore. It's over."

"It's _not_ over." Seamus growled. "Stop it, Dean, stop it! You can still fight. You have to!"

"Why?"

"Because you do!" Desperately, Seamus looked behind him again. It wasn't safe, standing here, exposed. "I know it's hard, Dean, but you've got to keep fighting. It'll be worth it, I promise. We'll get through this, and everything will be okay. Don't give up."

Dean stared at him for a long moment. He could escape. He could escape it all, be free. He would never have to struggle or suffer again...

Seamus held out a hand to help him up.

He wanted to escape. He wanted to be free.

But he knew Seamus was right.

Dean clasped Seamus' hand, allowed the other boy to pull him to his feet.

"We'll get you a wand." Seamus promised. "And then, we'll fight."


	186. Power

**I have no clue where this idea came from, and it's not a subject matter I normally deal with, mainly due to fear of not being able to do it justice. This piece, however, kept writing itself in my head until I had to get it down properly.**

**Warning: Contains rape.**

**186. Power**

He was a friend, in the same way she was "friends" with all the children of her parents' associates. She had had a mild dislike for him since the first time she had met him, but tolerated him for the sake of manners and connections. It was, her father had told her often, important to maintain the right connections.

Bellatrix understood this, but it was still irritating to have to put up with people she really would rather not spend anytime with. He, however, didn't impose upon her very often, at least.

Except, Bellatrix thought with annoyance, today. He hadn't left her alone all night, constantly trying to engage her in conversation, appearing beside her every time she turned around, touching her more often than she was comfortable with.

The common room party had seemed like a good idea, the best way to celebrate winning the Quidditch cup, but after several hours and a few too many drinks, she had a headache, felt a little dizzy, and was most definitely bored. She was never really so into parties and drinking, didn't entirely see the point. And she had forgotten herself, drank more than she'd intended, and now felt a little slow and fuzzy. The lack of control always bothered her, and when he put his hand on her arm, and she, slowly, looked down, blinking at it for a long moment before moving her arm away from him, she realised she had definitely drank too much. Slow reaction times were a bad sign.

"I...I'll be back in a moment." Bellatrix said, her words carefully slow and clear. She would be slurring, she thought in disgust as she made her way through the crowd. She knew better, of course, than to drink so much. She had just wanted to have a little fun, that's all.

_Not so fun now_, she thought as she exited the common room, into the blissfully cool corridor. She leaned against the cold wall, and breathed slowly. She would, she decided, pushing off the wall and beginning to walk, have a little wonder around until she felt more herself, then go back inside and slip up to bed.

She had only walked a few feet when she registered the footsteps behind her, closing in fast. Before she could turn around, though, she found herself shoved roughly against a wall. Her face, numb from alcohol, pushed into the wall hard, but the pain barely registered.

Someone's body was pressed against hers, crushing her against the wall. Someone's hands were travelling harshly over her body, squeezing and groping. A shocked cry caught in her throat. Hot breath was on her neck, fast and loud. It took her a moment to realise that her robes were being tugged up, and another moment still to realise what was happening.

She tried to scream, but the sound wouldn't quite come out. She began to struggle wildly, fighting against the solid form behind her, bucking and twisting in a desperate attempt to unpin herself. He was stronger, though, and so heavy. She tried to reach for her wand, managing to get her hand in her pocket, fingertips brushing the end of it, before he realised and knocked her arm away.

"No." He growled, then snatched her wand from her pocket and tossed it down the corridor. He hit the back of her head, so that her forehead rapped hard against the wall, and she saw stars. In that moment when she stilled, stunned, he made his move.

She felt the pain, the shock, and cried out. Even as her mind denied it – it couldn't, it couldn't be happening – her body assured her with pain that it was real.

She kept struggling, of course, desperately trying to escape, but knowing it was hopeless. She was sobbing, couldn't help herself, and she could barely breathe. She was helpless. Powerless.

And then, suddenly, the weight against her back was gone. Slowly, she slid to the floor, and huddled there. She didn't want to look up, didn't want to see his face, but couldn't help herself.

There he was. Her "friend" stood over her, looking down with a sick, amused smirk.

"Our little secret, Black." He whispered. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." He crouched down, looked her dead in the eyes. "And you won't tell anyone, either, will you? Don't want everyone knowing what a spoilt little whore you are."

She whimpered. That was the only way to describe the scared little sound that escaped her, and she hated herself for it. He flashed a grin, then stood, walked away from her without a backwards glance. She stayed there for a long time, huddled in a tight little ball on the ground, crying silently. She'd been hurt and violated, helpless to stop it.

After what seemed like an hour, she remembered her wand, and struggled to her feet. Bracing one hand against the wall, she moved slowly towards the wand, and stared at it for a moment. It had been useless to her, she thought bitterly. Magic hadn't saved her. Despite it, despite her skills, she'd been powerless.

Bellatrix picked up her wand, held it tight in her trembling hand. And vowed to never be powerless again.


	187. Eyes

**It's not exactly great, sorry. And it's short. I'm just trying to work through writer's block at the minute.**

**187. Eyes**

His hands were shaking.

Snape locked himself in his office and simply stared at his trembling hands.

He'd known, of course he'd known, that the boy had her eyes. He'd been told countless times, by all those stupid people who had no idea how much the mere mention of Lily's name tore him apart. And Dumbledore had mentioned it, more than once.

So he'd known. And he'd thought he'd been prepared for it.

But he hadn't. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, eyes that he'd looked into endlessly, eyes that he'd loved, eyes that haunted him, set into Potter's face.

He hadn't known how much the sight of those eyes would affect him, the memories and pain and regret. And seeing them in Potter's face, the undeniable proof that Lily had chosen Potter, not him, had loved Potter, married Potter and had a child with Potter, had been like a punch in the gut.

And he couldn't stop the shaking.

He'd buried it, locked it away, all the pain and grief and regret. He'd had to, to keep his sanity. But what now? With the reminder of her, of her life and her loss, the reminder that she had never truly been his, how could he possibly keep it locked away?

Would it always feel like this, every time he looked at the boy?

How would he possibly survive it?

He saw the confusion in Lily's eyes.

No, no, the boy's eyes. They were the boy's eyes. Simply a replica of Lily's eyes, given to a boy who was unworthy of her.

But the boy was confused. Understandable, really. The child didn't know, couldn't know, how much pain he was causing Snape just by existing. So he couldn't understand why this teacher was being so harsh to him.

But what else could he do? The sight of the boy made him hurt.

Snape turned away from him, refusing to look anymore.

But when he sat back at his desk, his hands were trembling again, just the slightest little bit.


	188. Favours

**More Snape, for some reason. This isn't fantastic, but I saw the final movie on Saturday, so I wanted to write something, and this was the only real idea I had. It doesn't make a lot of sense, I think, but you get the idea.**

**Thanks for reviewing, you guys are amazing.**

**188. Favours**

His heart was pounding. The hair on his body was standing on edge, the skin underneath covered in goosebumps. His breath was coming hard and fast, though he desperatly tried to control it, conscious of the sound. A thin sheen of sweat covered his body.

James Potter leaned against a cold, brick wall, hiding in the shadows, and knew he was dead.

"Fucking Snape." Beside him, Sirius' voice was low and angry. "Bastard. Bringing fucking reinforcements."

"We got them out." James whispered. "Moony got the whole family out, to safety -"

"Yeah, I know. But goddamn it, Prongs, did you see how many of the fuckers he brought with him?"

They had been simply guarding a safe house. Just for a night, just until the man - a man who Voldemort had condemned to death - and his family could escape the country. James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter, guarding the man, his wife, and his three small daughters. They had thought, all of them, that the family was low on Voldemort's priorities; leaving the country was simply a precaution, a man too desperate to protect his children to take the risk. Yes, Voldemort wanted him dead, but not enough, surely, to send out an attack team?

It had been, James thought, more of a favour. They'd spend the night, guard, on a night where nothing else was going on, because the poor guy was so distraught at his daughters being at risk. They'd get him out of the country first thing in the morning. And they wouldn't complain, because it was far, far better, to waste a night on pointless guard duty, than to find the lifeless bodies of a young family.

They hadn't expected an attack, but they had still dealt with it. Remus and Peter had taken the family, while James and Sirius duelled with the intruders. And they'd been winning. Only three had been sent; James assumed that was one to kill the man, one to kill his wife, and one to kill the children. The thought of that, of the three young girls, tucked up in bed where they ought to have been safe, being slaughtered while they slept, sickened him, and had done from the moment he'd seen the three hooded figures and understood.

But they'd dealt with two of them, and quickly. The Death Eaters, it seemed, hadn't expected a guard, anymore than the guards had expected them. But the third...  
Severus Snape's hood had fallen, revealing his face. And James, his wand trained on the man's heart, had hesitated. Just for a brief second; just long enough to allow the man to flee.

And to return, minutes later, with ten of his Death Eater buddies.

They had fought, had even taken out a couple, but they were far too outnumbered; and so they'd retreated, chased from the house.

Now the two of them were hidden in an alley, just a few feet away from the house, which was now covered with flames. They couldn't apparate, and had no idea how far the block on that reached. They couldn't run, not when they didn't know what direction the enemies were in. So they would fight, James thought, gripping his wand tighter. And they would, most likely, die.

He thought of Lily, and his heart ached. If he'd have known the last time he looked at her would be the last, he would have never stopped looking. If he'd known the last time he'd held her would be the last, he would have never let her go. But he hadn't known, so he'd let her go, and turned away, calling a careless goodbye over his shoulder and promising to come home safe.

He'd never broken a promise to her before.

"You should've killed him, Prongs." Sirius said flatly. "Just killed him before he could run for the others."

"I...I was just surprised to see him."

"Liar." Sirius muttered. "Lily would kill you, James, if she knew. She wouldn't want you to put yourself at risk rather than ending that bastard."

"He was her friend, once." James replied quitely. "She cared for him. Loved him. Even now, after all of this, his death would hurt her. I won't hurt her, Padfoot."

"He's not the same kid she was mates with, Prongs. She knows that. She's already lost him. And she wouldn't hold it against you, you know that."

"I know. I won't kill him, Padfoot, I won't do that to her. But next time, I won't hesitate to stun him."

"Next time?" Sirius laughed quietly. "You think we're coming out of this one alive?"

"Good point. I hope Remus avenges us."

"Hell yeah. Nice knowing you, mate."

Severus hestiated at the mouth of the alley. He could hear them, their quite voices just about carrying to him. They were trapped, vulnerable. He could kill them both, with barely any effort. Kill his life long enemies.

Kill the man who Lily loved.

His hand twitched. And Lily's face flashed before his eyes, grief-stricken and sobbing. Broken. Destroyed.

To kill the man Lily loved would hurt her. And Snape had sworn, a long time ago, never to hurt her again.

It took some effort, turning away, walking away. Lying to the others, convincing them that somehow, Potter and Black had ecaped. Half of his mind screamed to go back, to kill them. And the other half thought of Lily. And so he did her a favour, and let the man she loved return safely to her.


	189. Need

**I don't think I've ever written a piece centrered about Fleur's sister before, so I guess even after years of writing, there's still a first time for everything.**  
**This takes place right after the end of the war, so I think Gabrielle would have been around twelve at the time?**

**189. Need**

Gabrielle hated England. England was the country that had stolen her sister. England was the country that had been caught up in war, putting her sister at risk. England was the only place she had ever felt real fear, when her sister's wedding had been disrupted by dangerous wizards.

Gabrielle was packing a bag as fast as possible, ready to leave for England with her parents, to stay there indefinitely.

The war was over; her sister's brother in law was dead. Fleur needed them, and so they were going to her.

It was almost dark when they arrived, and freezing cold, but Gabrielle didn't even notice. Instead, she ran towards her sister - Fleur was stood in the doorway of her cute little cottage, looking tired and hollow - grabbing her in a tight hug, and bursting into tears.

She had known very little of the war while it was happening, her parents hiding as much as possible from her, but she had known that her sister was in danger, and seeing her again, finally, was too much to stop the tears. The relief - it was over, Fleur was safe, alive - and the horror - Fred was dead, Fred, who had made her laugh and danced with her at the wedding, who had always been smiling and so alive - tangled together in the tears.

Fleur held onto her for a long time, clinging just as tightly, then stroked her hair and stepped back, kissing her forehead before moving to hug her parents. Gabrielle looked into the house, where Bill stood, just inside.

The sight of his face was still a shock, even though she had seen it before, the mess of scars distorting the good looks that were underneath. He smiled at her, just a little, but she could tell it was forced.

"Hi, Gabrielle." He murmured, and she stepped into the house.

"I'm sorry about your brother, Bill." She said solemnly, and then hesitated, before hugging him. Not as tightly as she had her sister, not as desperately, but trying to offer comfort.

She loved Bill. She had hated him, because Fleur loved him, and had therefore chosen to stay in England forever, but at the wedding, when the danger had arrived, Bill was the one who had grabbed her, pulling her away, to where she wasn't at risk. Bill was the one who had told her to keep calm, that she was safe, that he wouldn't let anything happen to her.

He didn't reply, only nodded, and so she released him, and wondered if she shouldn't have said anything. They both looked back outside, to where Fleur was talking to her parents in quite, rapid French, her father arm around her shoulders, her mother holding one of her hands.  
Gabrielle stood and watched them, realising she had no idea how to handle any of this.

It was wrong. It was so wrong to leave her sister here, with this family, this wonderful family so broken and grief stricken, wrong to go home and know that Fleur would never be coming with her.

Gabrielle clung to her sister, crying again - and Fleur was crying too, she realised - saying goodbye and hating it.

"I can't believe she's almost two." Gabrielle said, balancing her niece on her lap while the toddler reached up to wind Gabrielle's hear around her fist. "I've barely seen her. Not since she was a baby."

"I know." Fleur replied, looking both a little sad, and apologetic. "We keep planning to come over, but..."

"And now you're having another one." Gabrielle sighed. Her sister didn't look pregnant, not yet, but there was life beginning inside her. "And I'll hardly ever see them, either."

"You will, Gabrielle. I'll bring them to France, I promise. I want them to see it, to love it like I do."

"How often?" Gabrielle challenged.

"I don't know." Fleur admitted, looking a little surprised.

Gabrielle lowered her gaze back to her niece, trying to memorise her face, her scent, her chattering voice, to focus on how it felt to have the weight of her on her knee, how tightly she gripped the chunk of hair in her hand, how brightly she smiled. Victoire said something, fast toddler speak that Gabrielle didn't understand, and then burst out laughing, her face alight, the high pitched sound of it making Gabrielle smile, too.

"I've never heard her laugh before." She said, without looking up. "She's so perfect, Fleur."

"Every year." Victoire said suddenly. Gabrielle looked up, then winced as the movement caused Victoire to tug her hair. "What?"

"We'll come over every year, me and Bill and the children."

"You will?"

"Yes. And you can come here, Gabrielle, whenever you want, you know that. But we'll bring them every year." She moved across the room and sat down beside her. "I want you to know them, properly. And they need their Auntie Gabrielle."

"Promise?" Gabrielle said quietly.

"I promise."


	190. Thankful

**I actually can't believe I've gone this long without an update. Many apologies guys, things have been hectic the last couple of months, and I've had no real ideas, so even if I had gotten a proper chance to write something down, I doubt I'd've come up with anything. But I'll try to update quicker in future. This came out longer and in a bit of a different direction than I intended, and it's also incredibly sappy.**

**Merry Christmas.**

**190. Thankful**

As she tucked her young son up in his cot, Lily Luna Potter sighed a little bit. Not out of misery, or weariness, or tiredness – though she could no longer remember the last time she had had a decent night's sleep – but simple contentment. Everything was, for a moment, perfect. Her infant was sleeping peacefully – and since Colby had recently begun teething, the peacefulness was something to be overjoyed at – her husband was readying himself for a boys' night at Hugo's, and some of her favourite women were on their way over for their own girls' night in. It was a rarity, these days, for them to all gather together, and so she was looking forward to it. Even if a little part of her couldn't help but wish for a quiet night in with her husband instead. In the months since Colby's birth, they had had precious little time together, without either falling asleep, descending into an argument where they took their tiredness out on one another, or being interrupted by a screaming baby.

She stepped out of the room, pulling the door almost closed behind her, and walked into her own bedroom. Scorpius was combing his hair; his eyes met hers in the mirror, and he smiled. Not really _at _her, she knew; after all this time, she could read his face, almost read his mind, and knew the smile wasn't directed towards her, but simply because of her. He was appreciating her, enjoying the sight of her, experiencing pure love and thankfulness that she was his.

She knew, because she often found herself overwhelmed by the same thing, and knew she wore the same smile when she did.

"Nearly ready?" She asked, and he nodded, placing the comb back down. They moved automatically, in unison; he turned, as she stepped forward, closing the distance between them; he opened his arms and she stepped into them, winding her own around his neck as he pulled her closer. She breathed in his scent, (the aftershave she'd bought him for his birthday, his shampoo, and his own scent, uniquely him) as he stroked a hand down her hair, her back, gently moulding her backside, in a careless caress that was as familiar to her as breathing. She still, after all this time, felt safe in his arms, and loved, and wanted. And, winding a hand through his hair, she pressed just a little tighter against him, closing her eyes, safe in the knowledge that he was hers, and hers alone, forever.

It was still a thrilling, lovely feeling.

"You look nice." He told her quietly, without letting her go, or drawing back at all, enjoying the closeness, the togetherness, enjoying it as much as they had when they were teenagers, first falling in love, despite the years, and the rings, and the baby they'd gained since then.

"So do you." She murmured. "You'll have all the pretty girls after you tonight."

He laughed, and squeezed her tighter. "I don't think they'll be any pretty girls at Hugo's tonight." He drew back a little, pressed a kiss to her mouth. "I don't need any pretty girls anyway. I've got a beautiful girl right here. And she's all mine."

She couldn't help the smile. He called her beautiful often, seemed to make a point of complimenting her frequently. But sometimes, the words he chose, or the way he said them, or the look on his face as he spoke, managed to touch something inside her, and set off that warm feeling.

"I am all yours." She agreed; the words were barely out of her mouth before she heard a faint thud, and then her cousin's voice calling out. Reluctantly, they released each other, kissing briefly as they did so. "Don't drink too much tonight." She told him as she started towards the door. "You might get lucky when you get home."

She smiled at his laugh, and smiled wider when he called "I hope so" after her. The years, and the marriage, and the child, had taken the sharp edge of desperation from their desire for one another, but that desire, the need, was still present.

She entered the living room just in time to see Lydia fall out of the fireplace, and be helped to her feet by a laughing Rose. Allison, Lydia's sister and Lily's sister-in-law, followed from the fireplace, somehow managing to stay completely balanced and even look graceful. They were greeting one another when Scorpius stepped into the doorway.

"Ladies. I'll be off now, to do man things."

"Drink, lose at cards, and tell lies about sex?" Lydia asked sweetly.

"They won't all be lies, but yes, in a nutshell."

"M'kay. Well make sure Zander doesn't lose all our money. You know how competitive he and Lorcan get."

"And how much Hugo encourages them." Rose added.

"Me and Albus can control them, don't worry Lydie." Scorpius wound his arms around Lily's waist, drawing her closer so her back was against his chest. "Besides, James wins us all, every time. I think he cheats."

"Nah, he's just lucky." Allison replied. "Plus, I've seen all of you when you're playing cards. Not one of you has a decent pokerface."

"Lorcan certainly doesn't." Rose agreed. "I asked him a few days ago if he'd finished his Christmas shopping, and he didn't even nearly convince me that he had, however much he tried."

"That would be the same day he turned up at ours, begging Zander to go shopping with him and help him buy your presents?" Lydia asked.

"Yup, that's the one. To be fair, he's been busy writing his latest book, as well as sorting out the last minute details before the last one gets published. And he had that book signing last week. But honestly, I sorted out presents for everyone else, from the both of us. He only had to remember mine."

Meredith, Hugo's fiancée, chose that moment to fall out of the fireplace, catching herself a second before she hit the floor.

"And that's my cue to go, now all your girls are here." Scorpius said, releasing his wife. "Enjoy yourselves."

"You too. Try win a game for us, babe." Lily replied, kissing him goodbye. He gave her a pained look, and promised to try before he left.

Two hours and countless drinks later, the five girls were sat around the living room, the remnants of a Chinese takeaway abandoned on the coffee table.

"We should do this more often." Ally said, sat on the floor, her eyes closed and her head laid back against the sofa. "Why don't we do this often anymore?"

"Cos...we all got old, and married, or engaged, or had kids...and got too busy and grown up." Lydia replied after a pause. "When did we grow up?"

Lily laughed, and leaned forward to refill the drinks. "I don't think I grew up until I had Colby, to be honest."

"Not when you got engaged? Or married?" Rose snorted. "Marriage is pretty grown up."

"Yeah, and I guess I felt a bit more like an adult. But...I don't know. Everything changes when you have a baby, Rosie. Everything just...shifts."

"They're your focus." Ally agreed. "It's not about you, anything, it's about them, their best interests, what's best for the family."

"You have to be an adult. A proper one. Because that's what they need. You'll see, Rose. Once you have one, you'll get it. There's nothing else like it in the world."

"Nothing else as amazing and terrifying and challenging and rewarding." Ally put in.

"Plus, you and Lorcan love each other," Lily added softly, "and you probably think you couldn't possibly love him more. Wait until you have his child. When you give him that, your baby, your family, and you see the look on his face, you'll fall even more in love with him. You'll love him for being your child's father, for loving that child so much, and...he'll love you more, Rose, for giving him that child, he'll be awed and proud and you'll adore him for it. It changes you both, and your lives, and the world."

Rose gave a little sigh, and smiled. "Stop. You're making me broody. Kids don't fit into the life plan right now."

Ally smirked at her. "Loving Lorcan didn't fit into your life plan at all. Seems to be working to me."

"Yeah, well...Loving Lorcan was something I couldn't help. Couldn't stop. And I tried."

"I remember it." Lily smiled. "And I remember telling you that you can't help who you fall in love with, and you can't fight it."

"Yeah. Best thing I ever did was stop fighting it. But you can't blame me. It was crazy and scary and just, out of nowhere." She laughed a little. "I still don't understand it. How can you, after knowing someone your whole life, just turn around one day and see them differently?"

"Tell me about it. Zander was one of my best friends, I barely even realised he was a male. Then suddenly – he wasn't my friend, he was a guy, and he was _the_ guy."

"He went away though, didn't he?" Meredith asked. "Spent a year going round the world, came back and fell for you."

"Yeah. But he was the same guy. I was the same girl. I've no idea what changed."

"Maybe you were just ready to love each other." Lily shrugged. "I knew Scorpius for years, but we were kids. Then we got older, and the attraction sparked. We were still just kids, really, I suppose, but..."

"You were just meant to be." Lydia said with a smile. "Crazily young, yeah, but perfect. You guys gave me hope, Lily. I watched you grow up enough to be attracted to him...then grow up enough to even realise it was attraction. Then grow up enough to love him, to be loved by him. You were just meant to be." She repeated.

"Y'know, I honestly believe we were." Lily replied softly, smiling contently. After a moment of silence, she turned to Meredith. "How about you and Hugo? When did you realise you loved him?"

Meredith didn't answer for a long moment, then sipped her drink, and shrugged. "I don't know. You remember, way back, when we almost got together, but didn't? There was this night, in our last year of school, after we'd won the Quidditch cup. A party. A great party, actually. We'd met a few times before, and I guess I'd been interested but too shy to do anything about it. Anyway, we got talking at the party, and carried on talking all night. Everyone else eventually went to bed, or passed out in the common room, and we stayed up talking. It was like we were the only two people in the world, and he was sweet and amazing, and we fell asleep together. And I remember thinking that I could fall in love with that guy." She laughed a little. "Obviously, it failed completely, until a whole year later. It just...once we finally got together, it was different from the beginning. It was intense, and fast, and I kept thinking that I couldn't love him yet, it was too soon. But I did. I think, in all honesty, I started falling in love with him that night in the common room. A year later, we just picked right back up. So I don't really know the exact point. Or even the exact point I realised it. It was just...there." She sipped her drink again, then murmured, barely audible, "Meant to be."

"Y'know girls...we're actually pretty lucky." Lydia said quietly. "There's so many people out there that would kill to have what we have."

"That's why we appreciate it so much." Lily murmured tiredly. "We're incredibly lucky." She traced her right index finger over her wedding ring.


	191. His Little Girl

**Thanks for the reviews. I know updates have been really slow recently, not sure if that's going to get better or not tbh. But really, thank you so much to everyone who's still reading, after all this time. **

**191. His Little Girl**

She was his little girl. His baby. His amazing miracle.

Eleven years ago, Rose had made him a father. She had come into the world and changed everything. Become the centre. She had made him more than he'd ever thought he could be. She had been so tiny and helpless and beautiful and loud and just, so, _wow_. It had taken him weeks to get over the awe of her, this perfect little creature that he'd helped create.

His baby. He had never thought himself capable of loving something as much as he loved his wife, but Rose had proven him wrong. He'd never thought himself capable of being able to look after a child, but, again, she'd proven him wrong. He'd never thought he'd be able to have the unconditional, unbreakable, love and idealisation of a child – _his_ child – but she'd proven him wrong there, too.

Of course, Hugo had come along a couple of years later and proven all the same things, in his own way, and had given Ron other gifts – a son, a child who was more like him in looks and personality, a little boy who thought of him as something to grow up to be.

Between them, they made his life so much more than he'd ever known it could be. The both of them, even when they were angry or upset with him, even on those rare occasions they'd claimed to hate him, they loved him, unquestionably, with their entire innocent hearts. They looked upon him as a hero, counted on him to keep them safe, to protect them. They had both, various times, crawled into his and Hermione's bed, scared, expecting their parents – expecting him – to keep the monsters away from him. They had both, countless times, slipped their tiny hands into his, assuming he would keep them from harm in the streets.

They were his life, his heart, his very reason for being. As was the woman who was now stroking his hair, but in a different way.

"She'll be fine." Hermione said softly. "She'll love it there. You know our Rosie. She'll make tons of friends, and read half the library, and have the time of her life. And write home every week, because she'll miss us just as much as we miss her."

He hoped so. The idea of his baby, his little girl, going off to Hogwarts and forgetting that she loved her dad was incomprehensible.

He nodded, but couldn't think of words to say. He sighed, and looked out over the kitchen. He was sat the table, and Hermione was stood beside him, his head leaning into her stomach, her hand running affectionately through his hair.

"She took her first steps. Right there. Three steps, then fell into the counter, remember? Whacked her head on it as she fell, scared us both half to death."

"I remember."

"That wasn't a decade ago, was it Hermione?"

"It must've been." Hermione sighed, and slipped into the seat beside him. He reached out, linked his hand with hers. "Where did all those years go, Ron?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. One minute, she was this big -" He held his hands about half a foot apart, "the next, she's eleven and packing her trunk."

"It seems like only five minutes ago she couldn't pronounce half the alphabet." Hermione sighed. "She'd cuddle up to me, and I'd read to her, and then she'd beg for another story."

"She'd scream her head off during storms. Terrified of thunder."

"And we'd bring her into our bed, and Hugo too because he didn't like to be left out, and we'd all just talk, all through the night, until we fell asleep." Hermione finished, smiling. "Spent all the next day knackered, but it was worth it."

"She'd ask all about Hogwarts. And we'd tell her she'd go there one day, when she was older. Hermione, I didn't ever really expect her to _go_. Not so soon."

"I know." Hermione replied, with a laugh that sounded almost tearful. "She'll be fine, Ron. She'll be great. She'll do well, and she'll be happy, and...and she'll be alright."

"What about us?"

"Oh, we won't be alright until Christmas, when she comes back. And then she'll leave again..."

"Muuuuuuummmmm!" The loud, bright voice of his daughter (one of his favourite voices in the world, the voice that had reduced him to tears the first time he'd heard it) echoed down the stairs. "I'm ready to go!"

"Oh, Merlin." Ron muttered.

He'd got through the goodbye. Though he was sure his perceptive daughter knew how much saying goodbye was tearing him apart, he'd put on a pretty good front.

And then there was one last desperate hug before she climbed up onto the train, grinning at them from the window. Still his baby. Still so _young_. Her neatly trimmed fringe would be growing into her eyes soon, and she would blow it endlessly out of her way until they cut it again. Her face was decorated with a scattering of freckles, which she was just starting to dislike. Her eyes were bright, and hopeful, and innocent. The teddy bear she'd had her entire life was packed into her trunk, because she still slept with it. Her Hogwarts robes were a little overlong, but she was growing so much lately, they'd fit perfectly in no time.

She was going to grow up. He had to face that, accept it. She was going off to Hogwarts, starting to learn magic. Every time she came home she would be a little bit older, a little bit more mature. A little bit less his little girl. She would finish Hogwarts, become a fully fledged witch. She would get a job. She would move permanently out of his house. She would fall in love.

Oh, Merlin, what would he do when his baby fell in love, and got married, and had babies of her own? It would kill him, he was sure.

(In truth, almost a decade later, when he saw his daughter wrapped up in the arms of Lorcan Scamander and realised she was completely in love, it didn't kill him. It caused him a little pang, but she was so clearly happy, and Lorcan, who was, and always had been, a good kid, clearly loved her hopelessly. So however much it ached to realise his little girl was fully grown up, she was happy; so he was happy, too.)

But she was his little girl, his perfect little baby, and the big scarlet steam engine was taking her away from him. She was far too young to be disappearing off into the world without him. How could he protect her when she was so far away? How could he comfort her at night when she was afraid? Thunder still unsettled her. It didn't terrify her like it had when she was younger, but it unsettled her and he wouldn't be there to make her feel safe.

What would he do without her being at home?

Rose waved excitedly out of the window as the train began to move. And he stood there, powerless to stop her leaving.

By the time he and Hermione left the station – Hugo's hand tucked securely into his – he felt rather lost and heartbroken.


	192. Black Snow

**Slow updating, I know, which is likely to continue over the next few months, while I get the mountain of uni reading and work done. Even now I should be trying to get my head around Chaucer...but writing this seemed more appealing.**

**Thanks for the reviews, and for still reading.**

**192. Black Snow**

It was snowing, the day she left. Andromeda stood outside the house she had grown up in, looking at it for the last time, with the little flakes billowing around her.

"I'm sorry." Andromeda said quietly to Narcissa. "I really am. You'll understand, one day, Cissy."

"He's a mudblood." The younger girl said, looking confused and upset. "You're leaving us for a mudblood."

"I know. I...Be safe, Cissy."

Her sister didn't reply as Andromeda walked away. The snow began to fall thicker and faster, coating her hair and clothes. It settled on the ground, her footsteps imprinting it. White, clean, pure, Andromeda thought, looking at the flakes that were landing on her frozen hands.

Almost...almost like it was cleansing her. She was free, now – she had escaped her family, the oppressive house, and the forced ideals. She was going to marry, for love, and live a long, happy life. And the snow was cleansing her, so she could begin that marriage, that life, fresh and clean.

* * *

It was snowing, the day she first killed. Bellatrix had half-feared that the curse would fail, that she wouldn't be strong enough. But the green light had found its mark; and she had watched the life drain from the man in front of her. So quickly, so suddenly, a blink-and-you-miss-it moment.

She stepped forward, and crouched by the body, where it lay in the snow. The eyes, blank and staring, the mouth half open, a vague surprise over the dead face. She studied him, fascinated – _look what I did_ – and pride and glee swept over her.

Then, she reached down to her boot, drew out a dagger. And slit the dead man's throat. She didn't entirely know why – perhaps a bloodless kill didn't feel like enough, or perhaps she just wanted to desecrate the body, or even, possibly, she wanted to know it felt like to have blood on the hands.

She allowed the crimson liquid to pour over her skin – it was hot, when it first made contact, still hot despite the death, but it cooled rapidly when met with the cold air. It ran over her hands, and onto the snow, staining it red, marring the pure white.

She had killed. Bellatrix laughed quietly to herself, raising her blood stained hands to examine them. She was a murderer, and the power of it was making her dizzy.

She sat in the cold, in the snow, until the dead man ceased to bleed.

* * *

It was snowing, the day she married. Narcissa kept a smile on her face from the moment she woke up – nervous, but happy and in love. Now, fully dressed and completely ready, she stood by the window, watching the tiny flakes fall. A fire was burning in the fireplace, lending warmth to the room; and still, looking at the white landscape out of the window, she shivered, as though the bitter cold was seeping inside. She wondered, for the briefest moment, if she was making a mistake. She loved Lucius, she did, but...There were so many doubts. What if he didn't love her enough, if they weren't right for one another, weren't ready for the commitment of marriage. She wanted a happily ever after – and had a subtle, inexplicable feeling that she wasn't going to get one.

She pushed the doubts away, told herself she was just nervous, and hitched her smile back in place. The first day of the rest of her life, Narcissa told herself, still staring out at the softly falling snow.

And if a tiny, quiet part of her wanted to just step out into the snow, and run, she ignored it. And within the hour, she became Mrs Malfoy, sealing her fate.

* * *

It was snowing, the day he realised he didn't belong in his family. Sirius was ten, and couldn't have said what had triggered the realisation. It wasn't really any one particular event – more a million minor events, observations, comments and feelings, accumulating into one unavoidable comprehension.

He had always known he was a little different. And he had always been aware of the distance between himself and his parents. But it was a cold winter Sunday that he found himself sat on the front doorstep, slowly being coated in snow, allowing the knowledge that he didn't belong to sink in.

He wondered if his mother even loved him. Sometimes, the way she looked at him, or spoke to him...it was as though she knew he was different, that he didn't quite match up to what she had wanted. And there was no affection, no love, in his house. Even perfect little Regulus didn't get shown any.

They were a cold family, Sirius thought, colder even than the snow fakes landing and melting on his skin. Colder even than the frigid air around him. And, he thought, suddenly angry and upset and burning with resentment, he was glad that he didn't really belong with them, wasn't really a part of them.

Suddenly desperate for escape from the family, the house, that he was growing to loathe, he jumped to his feet, and began to walk. They wouldn't notice he had gone, probably wouldn't notice if he never returned. He was nobody's child, he told himself. And he was perfectly fine with that.

What other choice did he have?

* * *

It was snowing, the day he signed his life away. While the Dark Mark was burned into his skin, Regulus stared out of the window, watching the snowflakes rapidly fall. He had no idea that the oath he had just sworn had set him on the path that would lead to his death. He had no idea that the mark which was slowly forming on his skin was as good as a signature on a death warrant.

Regulus joined the Death Eaters, swore himself to the Dark Lord, and told himself that he absolutely was brave enough, smart enough, skilled enough.

But later, he stood outside in the still falling snow, shivering from the cold, clutching his sore forearm. And swallowed all his fear and regret.

He was brave, and smart, and skilled. But he knew, however much he wanted to deny it, that it wasn't enough.

He started slowly walking home, unaware that every step, every breath, every heartbeat, brought him closer to the last.


	193. Forever

**Oh, wow, it's been ages. I'm going to blame it on a combination of having been swamped at uni for the past few months, then with other things, as well as having no inspiration at all. This one came about because I was determined to write **_**something**_**, so it's nothing special. Thanks to anyone who's continuing to read, despite my infrequent updates.**

**193. Forever**

He woke in a cold sweat, his breath coming thick and fast, bolting into a sitting position before his eyes had finished opening. His heart was pounding, the sound echoing in his ears. Blinking in the dark, Ron looked down at Hermione, sleeping beside him. He hadn't woken her, though the volume of his heartbeat seemed impossible to sleep through.

Just the sight of her seemed to calm him. Her tangled hair was spread over her pillow, and she clutched the quilt tightly in one hand, holding it to her neck. She always made sure she was wrapped up in the quilt, even on hot nights. It baffled him a little, especially since she was always so warm. Sometimes the heat of her skin made him uncomfortable in the night, but mostly, it was nice to roll over and feel the warmth of her, the reassurance that she was still there, right beside him.

He loved her. It had been months since he'd told her that, but it still surprised him sometimes, when he looked at her and the intensity of his feelings for her swept over him.

As quietly as he could, he slipped out of bed, and out of the room.

It had been a while since he'd had a nightmare, but it was pretty much the same as the others he'd had. That night, re-lived. Death and destruction. Except this time, Hermione was being tortured, by Bellatrix Lestrange, just like she had been at the Malfoy's all that time ago. Her screams...and blood. Blood everywhere.

In the kitchen, he stared at the window, at his reflection against the black night. She loved him back. He didn't know why. He wasn't good looking or anything. He wasn't particularly skilled or talented. She'd told him once, catching him in self-pity, that he had not only survived the war, he'd actively participated, he'd helped save the world, he'd pulled off amazing magic, and if he didn't think he was skilled, then he was stupid.

But he knew he wasn't anything special, not really. And he didn't have much to offer her. Not yet. He would make something of himself, he decided, staring into his own eyes. He would become someone she would be proud to be with. He would become someone she deserved.

He wanted her to be his. Forever. That realisation came out of nowhere, causing his eyebrows to raise, before he realised that, actually, he had wanted that all along.

She said she loved him. She said he made her happy, even when he drove her crazy. Would she take him on though, for the rest of her life?

He didn't realise he was smiling until he noticed it on his reflection. How strange, to want something so badly, that only a moment ago he hadn't really thought of. How strange to be so certain on it.

A creak on the staircase made him spin around, suddenly alert. The Burrow was full of people, he reminded himself, and any one of them could be making their way down the stairs.

But still, he wished he hadn't left his wand in his bedroom.

The kitchen door swung open, and Ginny stepped through it, and jumped at the sight of him. Her hand went instantly to the wand that was sticking out of her dressing gown pocket.

"Couldn't sleep, either?" She said calmly, moving her hand. When his gaze shifted to the wand, she looked down at it, then offered him a twisted smile. "Old habits. What're you doing up?"

He shrugged, and she moved past him to fill a glass with water.

"Ginny?" He said, as a thought occurred to him. "Will you go somewhere with me tomorrow?"

"Where?" She asked, looking at him curiously.

"I, um, I need your help...picking out a ring..."

"She might say no." Two days later, again alone with his sister in the kitchen, Ron toyed with the small box in his hands.

"She won't say no." Ginny replied. "I found the candles, Ron, but I'm not setting the table for you."

"She'll think it's weird, that the whole family's disappeared for the night. She'll be suspicious."

"So? Tell her that you two were invited to Bill's, too, but you wanted to spend the night alone with her. She'll like that you're doing something for her."

"Cooking for her? With candles. C'mon, Ginny, she's gonna be suspicious."

"Yeah, okay. But that doesn't matter." Despite her statement, Ginny began setting the table. "If I was you, I'd be more worried about Mum being suspicious. Getting Bill to invite them over was a good plan, but she's still wondering why you're not coming."

"She'll find out soon enough. Besides, Mum won't be here, I don't have to worry about her. You don't think Hermione would rather I took her out somewhere? Or...I don't know. Something different."

"No, Ron, I think this is the way you came up with, all by yourself, so it's perfect. And she'll love it, and she'll love the ring, and she'll say yes."

"You picked the ring."

"No, I picked a few options. Just to make sure you didn't go for anything I knew she'd hate. You picked the ring. And it's lovely." She smiled at him. "I knew as soon as I saw it, that it was the right one. It's perfect for her. I'm glad it's the one you chose."

"If you knew it was the right one, why show me the others?"

"Because you had to pick it yourself. And Ron? In about two minutes, you're going to have burning food in the oven."

"What? Oh -" Turning, he crouched down to open the oven door, and reached inside. Ginny cried out a warning just as his fingers touched the hot tray, and he whipped his hand back, swearing.

"Things in the oven tend to be hot." Ginny replied, smirking. While he glared at her, sucking his burnt finger, she tossed him a pair of oven gloves.

"I forgot." He muttered.

"Run it under the cold tap." She told him, as her name was called from the next room. "I've got to go, we're leaving."

"Don't tell -"

"Anyone, I know. I won't. Impulsively, she hugged him. "I'm really happy for you, Ron. I'd plate the food up, then bring her down. It'll make more of an impact if she sees it all complete. Oh, and don't forget to light the candles."

With that, she disappeared into the next room. After calling out a goodbye to him, Ron heard his family leave, and began to quickly serve the food, in case Hermione had heard them, and came down to see where everyone had gone.

When he'd finished, he surveyed the table, slipped a hand in his pocket to check the box was still there, and took a deep breath, before going to the bottom of the stairs.

She was already half way down them.

"Did I hear people leave?" She asked him.

"Um, yeah. Bill invited everyone over. I, uh, I thought that we could stay here though, just us."

"Oh. Okay." She smiled at him. He loved her smile, he thought. God, he was nervous.

"I...I made us something. To eat. Food."

She reached the bottom of the stairs. "Are you okay? You seem a little..."

"I'm fine." He said, forcing a smile "Come into the kitchen?"

"Sure."

He was about to walk into the kitchen when he remembered the candles, almost swearing.

"Um, just, wait here one sec." He said, nudging her away from the door.

"What?"

"Just give me a minute, okay? Just a minute." He slipped through the door, carefully making sure she couldn't see inside. "Idiot." He muttered, lighting the candles with his wand. "Okay. Okay. That's everything." He thought it was. He hoped it was.

"You, um, you can come in now." He called, and he was sure his voice actually shook. When she walked in, he felt his face go red.

Her mouth opened in surprise.

"I don't know if it'll taste good." He murmured, after the silence became too much for him to bear. "I tried. And Ginny...well, mostly she laughed, but she watched to make sure I didn't do anything wrong."

"It looks lovely." Hermione said finally. "You surprised me. I'd never have expected..."

"Sit down." He said suddenly. "Eat. Um. Please."

She looked at him again, but chose not to comment on his strangeness this time, sitting down instead. He sat opposite her, and realised he was far too nervous to eat. Instead, he found himself holding his fork and looking at her.

What if she said no?

"It's nice." She told him, smiling. "Honestly. Aren't you going to eat?"

He jumped a little, and forced a smile. "You don't have to lie, if it's awful."

"It's not." She promised him, and ate another forkful as though to prove it.

He managed to eat, though the nerves were making him feel sick. Oblivious, she chatted, not acknowledging his obvious awkwardness.

The waiting was torture. She seemed to eat so _slowly_, it was taking forever. And she kept smiling, so obviously pleased. What would he do if she said no? What could he do? Would things be awkward? Would she want to break up?

She put her fork down, the quite clink making him jump. "Finished?" He asked hopefully, and she nodded, obviously trying to figure out why he was acting strange.

"There's, um, there's cake, if you want it." He said. "But, um, but first...Hermione, I love you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes." She said quietly, smiling at him. "I do. I love you, too."

"Good. Ah, that's good. I never thought I could love anyone this much. I never knew it could be like this. I can't imagine my life without you, Hermione."

He had planned a speech, rehearsed it, and he was sure there was more to it than this, but his mind was blank. Giving in, he slipped out of his chair, and, feeling a little stupid, dropped to one knee, pulling the box from his pocket.

She stopped breathing, staring at him with wide eyes as he flipped open the little black box.

"Will you marry me?"

He was shaking, just a little. He couldn't help it. And she was staring at him, stunned, and he wasn't entirely sure she was breathing yet. Her eyes moved from his face, to the ring, back to his face, before she finally let out a breath.

"You – you're serious? Aren't you?"

He nodded, unable to speak.

Her eyes filled with tears. He took that as a bad sign, felt his heart sink and his stomach twist – and the next thing he knew, she was kneeling on the floor with him, her arms around his neck. "Yes!" She said, clinging to him, laughter in her voice. "Yes yes yes yes yes. I'll marry you."

He pulled her tighter against him. "You're sure? You don't have to -"

"Yes." She said again, drawing back to look at him. "Of course I'm sure. I'll marry you, Ron. Oh, god." She kissed him, holding him tightly. Several moments later, they broke apart, and he looked down at the ring in his hand.

"I guess you should put this on then." He said, grinning from ear to ear. She still had tears in her eyes (and he thought, maybe, he might do, too), but she was grinning just as much as he slipped the ring onto her finger.


End file.
